


sliding doors V

by ont



Series: mockingbird [21]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Band Stuff, Canon Compliant (kind of), Domestic Violence, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Family Dynamics, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Kid Fic, M/M, Marital Strife, Mental Illness, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Parenthood, Past Mpreg, Postpartum Psychosis, Recovery, discussion of psychiatric hospitalization, discussion of suicide, emotional reunions, grandpa louis and zayn, music industry, redemption arc, traumatic event
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:15:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 108,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27230320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ont/pseuds/ont
Summary: In 2042, Louis and Zayn's son is spiraling out in the public eye after following them into the music industry, leaving destruction in his wake.
Relationships: Liam Payne/Louis Tomlinson, OC/OC, Zayn Malik/Harry Styles, Zayn Malik/Louis Tomlinson (past)
Series: mockingbird [21]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/499807
Comments: 46
Kudos: 65





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is not a light read! make sure to check the tags. happy halloween

VALLEJO, OCTOBER 15, 2041

Amir is sitting on his back porch, staring numbly out at the bay, when Jeff Azoff takes a seat at the table beside him.

He jerks in surprise. He’s jumpy these days, plus he wasn’t expecting any visitors at all, much less Jeff Azoff. They don’t get a lot of people dropping by — they live at the top of a hill near the marina, with only a gravel private road connecting them to a one-lane, poorly tended section of public road. This house was a belated wedding gift from his parents, who have been eager to keep Amir far away from traffic after The Incident. He’s like a princess in a tower, if princesses’ husbands and fathers stared at them with fear and suspicion every time they held their own daughter.

“Hi,” Amir says to Jeff, who smiles. “Did Evan let you in?”

“Yep,” Jeff says. “How are you?”

There’s no good answer to that question, so Amir just shrugs.

“Yeah, I figured as much.” Jeff laces his hands together and lays them on the table, squinting at Amir through the midday haze of fog. “You’re kind of out in the middle of nowhere, here.”

“Everyone thought that would be best,” Amir says cryptically. “And Evan has a job at a wildlife refuge that’s like ten minutes from here.”

“Gotcha.”

“How are you?” Amir asks, mostly to divert the conversation away from himself.

Jeff smiles. “Same as ever. So, how would you feel about a change of scenery?”

“In what sense?”

“As in, getting out of the middle of nowhere. Seeing the world.”

Amir stares at him for a moment. His brain isn’t working as quickly as it normally does. “You want me to go on tour?”

“I want you to be an opener,” Jeff says. “For Jya. You heard of her?”

“Yeah... R&B?”

“Kind of,” Jeff says. “She’s kind of between genres, which is why we like her.”

Amir stares down at his hands, at the botanical tattoo that spans the back of the right one. “I don’t even have an album,” he says.

“Have you been working on music?”

Amir nods. That’s really all he’s done since he got out of in-patient — work on music.

“Then no problem,” Jeff says. “The tour doesn’t start until early next year, that’s plenty of time to get you into the studio and cut a few singles.”

Amir laughs, a little puff of air escaping him. Everything Jeff is saying sounds so far from his current reality, it’s like he’s talking to someone else. He stares at him through the haze, trying to take him seriously. “Dude, I can’t go on tour.”

“Why not?”

“I’m crazy, first of all,” Amir says.

Jeff rolls his eyes. “Every musician is crazy. So you had a little breakdown, who cares?”

“I was literally in the psych ward.”

“I know, that’s what Harry told me.”

“How much did he tell you?” Amir says, suddenly scared.

Jeff shrugs. “Just that, that you were in the psych ward.”

“Alright, well. I had to get electroshock therapy.”

“So?”

Amir struggles for a response to this mild reaction, which is unprecedented. “So, I… I’m not, like, well.”

“You seem fine to me.” 

“I wasn’t fine a few months ago.”

“That was then,” Jeff says. “This is now.”

“I have a ten-month-old baby.”

“Great, then she’s young enough that she won’t even remember you being gone.”

“My husband would kill me,” Amir says, even though he feels like that’s bullshit, and Evan would actually be relieved to have him gone, because he wouldn’t have to worry about him anymore.

He doesn’t even let Amir be alone with the baby, not really, which is wounding on a profound level. The nanny is always there, if Evan isn’t. She watches Amir the same way everyone else does, with that wary look that drives Amir up the wall.

Even Louis does it to him. In September when they were visiting, Amir had to change April, and Louis stayed in the room while he did so, gliding around with his eyes fixed on Amir the whole time like a haunted painting.

Amir is suddenly hit with a pang of longing for what Jeff is offering: a fresh start, a chance to be himself again. Jeff must see this in his eyes, because he leans forward and thumps his finger on the table between them.

“Listen,” he says. “Offers like this don’t come around every day. This could jump-start your career, this could be it for you.”

Amir swallows another laugh. “I can’t even think about this shit right now.”

“Why not? Look, I’ll be completely honest with you — every excuse you’ve given me so far? It’s all petty, personal shit. It’s small potatoes, Amir. It’s nothing. Contingencies. I’m talking about legacy shit. I’m talking about the rest of your life and your career, I’m talking about making you a rock star.” Jeff’s eyes are glittering. “You have it in you, you have _it_. I know it, we all know it. So what, your life is a little bit of a mess right now? Who cares? You’re an artist. Every great artist’s life is a mess. You’re crazy, you went to the psych ward? So did Van Gogh. Don’t tell me you’re going to throw away this gift, your birthright, to be a stay-at-home dad in some small town in the Bay.”

Amir stares at him, studying the hungry look on his face. He forgot how enticing it is to be wanted. “Does Jya want me, or is this just you?”

“Yes. Are you kidding? She loves your sound, she loves your voice, your look, all of it. Why do you think I’m here?”

“I dunno. Does _Harry_ know you’re here?”

Jeff laughs like this is a very funny joke. “Look, you may have an overinflated sense of how large a role Harry plays on this side of the business,” he says. “Harry is a product. Harry may believe that Harry is the reason Harry is Harry, and Harry continuing to be Harry may rely on that belief, but he’s not. Harry is the work of dozens of people, foremost myself. And that’s what I’m offering you. This is between you and me, and I won’t lie to you or condescend to you, because you’re too smart for that, and I know it. Straight up, I am offering you me. I’m a kingmaker, and you want to be a king.”

“I do,” Amir admits.

“Then what’s the issue?”

“Everything I’ve been telling you since you sat down is the issue.”

“Details,” Jeff says.

“It’s not details, dude, it’s my life.”

Jeff nods. The nod becomes a full-body movement that brings him up off the table, sitting rod-straight in his chair and folding his arms across his chest, his Rolex glinting in the sun. “You know why your dad doesn’t like me?” he says. “Louis, I mean?”

“Why?”

“‘Cos he’s a _nice guy_ ,” Jeff says, smiling, but he says this like it’s a slur. “He’s such a nice guy. And I’m not. You know why? Because the last fucking person on earth you want as your manager in the music business is a _nice guy_. I rip people’s throats out, and I’d do that for you. You’re down, right now? You feel like the world is kicking your ass, like you have no idea what to do, or who you are anymore? I get that, I really do. But my advice to you is stop sitting around pitying yourself, and stop trying to be someone you’re not. Be the star you’re meant to be, and arm yourself with a shark who’s willing to do all the dirty work for you.”

Amir stares at him, sorely tempted, but he stays quiet.

“Don’t decide now,” Jeff says, as if reading his mind. He gets up, tossing a business card on the table with a number scrawled in silver Sharpie across the back. “That’s my personal cell. Text me literally whenever, any time of day, I don’t give a shit.”

Amir takes the card and turns it over in his fingers, studying it. After a moment, he nods.

“Great,” Jeff says, putting his sunglasses back on. “Have a good one. I look forward to hearing from you.”

“Yep,” Amir says, glancing away from him, back out at the bay.

SACRAMENTO, JULY 3, 2042

Mia can always tell it’s going to be a bad night, long before the badness gets going in earnest. The tension hangs in the air like television static.

Something always triggers it — she or Katarina drinks too much, or they have a losing streak of games, or a bad practice, or one of them catches the other flirting with someone else. It’s only gotten worse since Amir scarpered, because now Mia is angry and depressed all the time, which makes her run her mouth and say shit she shouldn’t, which sets off Katarina’s Russian temper. That’s when the hitting begins.

Mia shouldn’t blame herself for getting hit, she knows she shouldn’t, but she does. She hits back, and she cusses her out, egging her on. Plus, she could easily dump Katarina — she has all the money, _she’s_ the one paying for their apartment. She doesn’t need her. She has enough power to get Katarina kicked off the team, or get her visa revoked, even.

But the sick, fucked-up part of her likes it. She craves the adrenaline of their fights, and she really doesn’t want to be alone.

Tonight the fight is sparked by Aya texting Mia that she’s going to be in L.A. for a few weeks. Mia’s in the shower when the text comes in, so Katarina sees it first, and when Mia gets out — _DING DING DING!_ Round one!

Mia is in a bath towel, so they aren’t evenly matched, but that does give her the advantage of being too slippery for Katarina to grapple.

“WHAT, WERE YOU GONNA MEET UP WITH YOUR EX BEHIND MY BACK, CYKA?” Katarina demands, slamming Mia into a wall while Mia grabs a handful of her short blonde hair and tries to yank it out of her head.

“Yeah,” Mia screams back, “I was going to fuck her, and tell her all about what a psycho bitch you are! Fucking Ukrainian gold digger!”

“I’M NOT FUCKING UKRANIAN! What else is on here, huh, what are you hiding from me? You cheating on me? Are you texting that whore from the bar?”

“Yep,” Mia yells, even though she’s not. Her heart is pounding. “Sure am, bitch!”

Katarina shoves her aside, then grabs her phone off the bed and flings it at her. Mia dodges it, and it smashes off the wall behind her, audibly breaking in the process.

Enraged, Mia lunges at her, smacking her across the face before fleeing to the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind her and locking it. She retreats to the bathtub, sitting on the edge of it, adrenaline pounding in her head.

“Go cool off,” Mia shouts through the door. “Go have a drink. Asshole.”

There’s silence, and then, thank God, Katarina’s footsteps walking away. Mia takes about ten minutes to cool off before heading out into the bedroom, where she gets dressed and bends to pick up her shattered phone. Definitely broken. Shit.

She’s halfway down the hallway when a powerful pounding sounds against the front door of their midtown loft.

“This is Sacramento County police,” a male voice shouts. “We got a call about a disturbance in this residence, we’re here for a welfare check. Please answer the door.”

Mia hurries into the living room and shoots a look up at Katarina, who’s sitting at the bar in the kitchen. “What the fuck?”

Katarina shrugs. “Nosy neighbors? You have money, get rid of them.”

“It doesn’t work like that here,” Mia snaps at her. “This isn’t fucking Moscow.”

Katarina gives her the finger.

Mia goes to the door and opens it, trying to look like she didn’t just hit her girlfriend in the face after being slammed into a wall. “Hi,” she says to the cops, who are both large white guys. “Sorry, what’s up?”

“Hi,” the guy on the left says. “My name is Matt, this is Drew. Everything okay?”

“Everything's fine,” Mia says in a flat voice. Funny, she thinks, how the police will take hours to show up if you call them in an emergency, but when you don’t want them in your business, they materialize lickety-split.

“Can we come in?”

“I’d love for you not to,” she says, her anxiety rising.

“Listen,” Drew says, “a neighbor called, okay? One of your next door neighbors. He said he heard screaming and blows landing. He also mentioned he frequently hears screaming and the sound of fighting coming from this apartment.”

Mia opens her mouth, but for once, she has no idea what to say.

“Are you alone?” Matt says.

“No,” Mia says, faltering.

“Can we come in?” Drew presses.

Mia shrugs and steps back, hugging her arms to her chest.

The police swagger into the apartment, looking around, their thumbs hooked into their gun belts, radios chirping.

“Hello,” Drew says to Katarina, who shoots a glare at Mia before answering with “Hi.”

“So what was going on a few minutes ago?” Matt says, glancing between them. “Little argument?”

“Yep,” Mia says.

“You have a lot of little arguments?”

“Do you have a warrant?” Katarina calls down from the bar, setting her drink down.

“No, but your friend here invited us in,” Drew says. “So what did your neighbor hear, exactly?”

“He heard _her_ ,” Katarina says, rising up to her full height and descending the stairs from the kitchen into the living room, “hitting _me_.”

“What?” Mia demands of her, feeling panicky. “You hit _me_! Fucking psycho!”

“She hit me in the face,” Katarina says, and points at her cheek, which is bright red.

“I — oh my God, you can’t be serious,” Mia demands, but the cops’ demeanors are starting to shift. They’re starting to eye her like she’s the criminal.

“When was this?” Drew says, making a note with a stylus on his little tablet.

“A few minutes ago.”

“She hit _me_!” Mia cries.

Katarina shakes her head.

“Are you denying that you hit _her_?” Matt says to Mia.

Mia looks at Katarina and starts to stutter. It seems impossible to deny, considering the red mark on Katarina’s face, but this is so unfair. “She — she shoved me, she broke my phone!”

“ _You_ broke your phone,” Katarina says, in her most surly tone, her accent thick. “You threw it at me after you hit me.”

“She’s lying,” Mia begs the cops, but they’re doubting her, she can tell.

“Why don’t you both come with us, down to the station,” Matt says. “You can calm down and answer some questions.”

“No.” Mia shakes her head. “Please, I don’t want to do that, I just want to go to bed.”

“I think you’re going to need to come with us, ma’am,” says Drew.

“Come on. Seriously? This is _my_ apartment, I pay the rent. Can’t you just make her go?”

“Ma’am —“

“No!” Mia shouts at him, backing away.

Matt comes after her, grabbing her just like Katarina grabbed her earlier, pulling her arms behind her back. Mia staggers and knocks into a display case that contains a piece of art Harry gave her.

“Don’t struggle,” Matt says to her, as cold metal bites her wrists. Jesus Christ, he’s cuffing her. He’s actually cuffing her. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be. We just want to talk.”

“Fuck you,” Mia spits.

“See, she’s crazy,” Katarina complains.

“Fuck you too, bitch!”

“Alright,” Matt says, taking Mia by one shoulder as Drew takes her by the other. “That’s enough of that.”

*

Liam has just started to doze off when his watch starts buzzing on his wrist.

He lifts it to eye level and squints hard at the screen, which appears to sway in the darkness. CALL FROM MIA, it says.

He rolls out of bed with a groan, grabbing his earpiece off the nightstand. Behind him, he hears Louis pat the bed and say sleepily, “Wassup?”

“Dunno,” he says. “Mims is calling.”

Louis yawns an “Oh, alright” in response as Liam pushes his earpiece into his ear and shakes his watch at it. “Hey, what’s going on?”

“Hi,” Mia says. She sounds exhausted. “Are you with my dad?”

“Yeah, why, d’you need him?”

“No, I just don’t want him to hear what I’m about to say.”

“What are you about to say?”

She sighs. “I’m at the police station, can you pick me up?”

Liam moves into the bathroom, flipping the light on, and the fan, too, to cover their conversation. “Police station in what way?” he says, rubbing his bleary eyes. “Police station like you need bailed out?”

“No, I didn’t get charged with anything, I just, uh…” Mia’s quiet for a while. “Me and Katarina have been fighting a lot, and, uh, the police got called. So I was just down here explaining the situation to them. And I’m trying to end things with her, so I called a locksmith to come change the locks on my apartment, so she can’t get in, but I’d feel better if somebody came to wait with me, if that makes sense.”

This is the first Liam is hearing of any of this, so his brain works frantically to fill the gaps in what she’s saying. “Did she hurt you?”

Mia’s quiet for a moment. “Yes.”

“Did she _hit_ you?” Liam says, alarmed.

“We were hitting each other.”

“But who started it?”

“Her, I guess. Look, don’t tell my dad, okay? This is the last thing he needs right now. Can you just tell him I locked myself out and I want you to come wait for the locksmith with me? That’s, like, half the truth.”

“Okay,” Liam says quickly. “Sure. Text me the address of the station you’re at.”

“Thanks, Liam…”

“No problem, love.”

“Also, my phone is smashed, and my watch is really low on battery, so I might not answer if you try to call me back.”

“How’d your phone get smashed?”

Mia is silent in response.

“Alright, message received, I’ll stop asking questions,” Liam says. “Be there in a jiff.”

“I appreciate you, Liam.”

“I know you do.”

WEST SACRAMENTO POLICE DEPARTMENT, JULY 4, 2042

It’s past midnight by the time Mia walks out of the police station. Liam is parked along the curb, waiting, and he flashes his headlights at her when he spots her. Mia jerks her head like a spooked horse, then recognizes his car and gives him a chin nod before heading over.

“Hi,” she says as she climbs up into the cab of Liam’s truck. She has dark circles under her eyes, is whippet-thin, and smells like cigarette smoke. Liam hopes this is just from exposure to her girlfriend, and not that Mia herself has been smoking. You can’t even buy cigarettes in California anymore, but it’s not like that’s a great deterrent for the highly motivated. “Sorry to get you up so late.”

“It’s okay,” Liam says, studying her. “You alright?”

Mia shrugs. “I’ve been better.” She leans over to plug her address into Liam’s GPS, and the car starts moving of its own accord. “I think tonight was just a wake-up call.”

“Uh, yeah. Is the locksmith on his way?”

“She is, yeah.”

“Do we, er… have to worry about your girlfriend showing up?”

“Ex-girlfriend,” Mia mutters. “No. The cops are holding her overnight.”

“Are you pressing charges?”

“I’m not, but after they brought us in, I explained to the one cop what actually happened, and when they went to question her about it, she started mouthing off to them a lot, and then I guess she got physical with one. So they had her do a breathalyzer and she blew a huge number or something, and they’re holding her on a drunk and disorderly. I don’t really give a shit, I just want her out of my life.”

“Aren’t you two teammates, though?”

Mia shrugs. “I texted Coach Kelly about what happened, and she says she’s going to call Katarina in for a talk on Monday. I’m guessing she’s going to cut her. She’s been playing like shit lately anyway, and blowing off practices and workouts and stuff. She rides the bench half the time, now.”

“Okay,” Liam says hesitantly. “As long as everything’s okay.”

“Yep.”

“You hurt at all?”

“My shoulder’s a little sore.”

“Mims…”

“I’m fine,” she says, her voice hoarse. “I’m just embarrassed. This is so fucking stupid.”

“It’s not stupid to get hit.”

Mia shakes her head and clears her throat. “I hit her back.”

“That sounds like self-defense, sweetheart.”

“Yeah, well.”

They’re quiet.

“Lou mentioned you said you two were sort of toxic, but nothing like this,” Liam says.

“I didn’t give him all the lurid details,” Mia says. “I don’t want him to worry about me.”

“Right. You should tell him things like this, though.”

“I was never in danger or anything,” Mia says, and Liam can’t tell if she’s trying to convince him, or herself. “I could have taken her.”

“Mia…”

“I’m kidding,” Mia insists.

Liam glances over at her. Her face is set in defiance in a way that’s very Zayn-like. It’s like she’s covered in impenetrable armor.

“I know it’s been hard for you, with, erm, what’s been going on with Amir,” he says, stumbling awkwardly on his words. Bringing up Amir with Mia or Louis is lately like tossing a brick into a minefield. “Your dad’s struggling too.”

“I know he is,” Mia says, playing with the radio, flicking through the stations too fast for them to actually hear what’s playing on any of them. Streetlights sweep past them overhead as they merge onto the highway and start heading downtown.

“Have you heard from him at all?”

“Amir? No, you’d know if I had.”

“Are you still reaching out?”

“Occasionally,” Mia says. “I’m kind of an asshole when I do, so I’m not surprised I haven’t heard back.”

Liam drums his fingers on the steering wheel, and looks out the window, watching pedestrians walk along the bridge they’re crossing. They all look so carefree, just out for a nighttime walk. “Yeah.”

“It’s hard not to be angry.”

“I know.”

“If it weren’t for April, I wouldn’t be,” Mia says.

“I know,” Liam says.

Mia’s quiet. “What did you tell my dad?”

“What you said to tell him. That you got locked out.”

“Okay. Sorry, I know you don’t like lying to him.”

“It’s fine,” Liam says. “Was only a half-lie, anyway.”

“Right.”

They lapse into silence.

“Have you heard from Sunday, the past few days?” Mia says.

Liam nods. “She texted this morning from the road. I think the days just get away from her.”

“I’m sure,” Mia says, then adds with fondness in her voice: “Our little Olympian.”

“Don’t,” Liam says, laughing. “She hates that. She thinks we’ll jinx her.”

“She’ll make it,” Mia says dismissively. “She shouldn’t even worry.”

“I think she’s pinning all her hopes on the WEG this fall, so that’s a lot of pressure.”

“But even if she blows it there, she has two years after that to qualify.”

“Yeah, but you know how she is.”

“I do.”

“You should give her a call,” Liam says. “She likes to hear from you. Likes to get a pep talk.”

“I should,” Mia says. “I can just never get ahold of her these days.”

“After September, she said she’d come home for a bit,” Liam says. “For the holidays.”

Mia nods. “Do you believe her?”

“Yeah, don’t have a reason not to.”

“Right.”

*

Liam wakes Louis up when he crawls back into their bed. Louis rolls over and checks his watch — it’s 2:24 in the morning.

“Took you a while,” Louis murmurs.

Liam spoons him, tugging the duvet over both of them. “Sorry. Locksmith took ages.”

“She didn’t really lock herself out, did she? She was kicking that girlfriend of hers out, yeah? Changing the locks on her?”

Liam is quiet for a long moment. “Yeah,” he says. He always knows better than to try and get anything past Louis.

“Cheers,” Louis says. “Good riddance. She didn’t tell me much, but nothing she did say soundd good. Why didn’t she ring me?”

“She thinks you’ve got enough going on right now.”

They hear the sound of tiny footsteps in the hallway, and then their door, which Liam left ajar, is pushed open. April toddles over to their bed, lifting her arms up to Louis.

“Oi, who’s this?” Louis says, yawning and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. “Couldn’t be April, ‘cos _she’s_ supposed to be asleep. How’d you get out of your crib?”

April keeps motioning to him. She talks more now that she has the cochlear implant, but the hearing world seems to have remained somewhat foreign to her — her first instinct is still to gesture.

“Alright, I got you.” Louis scoops her up, smoothing her blonde hair back off of her face. “Get some sleep, Payno.”

“Will do,” Liam says from behind him, sounding like he’s already drifting off.

Louis carries April down the hall to the spare bedroom they turned into her nursery after Evan moved in with them. Evan is sat on the floor with his back against the crib and his head tipped back, fast asleep.

Louis settles April down in the crib and engages the child lock so she can’t push the bars down and escape. “You stay in there,” he says sternly. “It’s bedtime.”

April giggles at him, and he melts a little. She’s a very cute baby. She favors Amir, which always feels bittersweet to notice, lately. She has his cheeks, and nose, and big brown eyes.

Once he’s tucked her in and cuddled her up with her stuffed animals, Louis kneels beside Evan and gently shakes him awake.

Evan inhales sharply and looks around. He’s still in his work uniform. “Oh, fuck,” he says.

“Hi there,” Louis says.

“I must have, uh…” Evan rubs at his eyes. “I came in to put her back down, I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“You can’t do that, mate. She can’t be runnin’ around unsupervised while we’re all asleep.”

“I know, sorry,” Evan says. “I’m just so tired, it’s been a long week.”

“You get tomorrow off though, right? Your July Fourth?”

“Yeah, I do. I’ll go with you to her appointment.”

Louis nods. “You ought to go to bed.”

Evan sighs. “Ah, I’m awake now...”

“Want some tea?”

“Sure.” Evan staggers to his feet, then turns to April’s crib and leans over it, giving her a kiss on the head. “Goodnight, sweetie,” he murmurs, signing to her as he talks. “Go to sleep.”

She burbles happily in response.

They make their way downstairs to the sprawling kitchen, and Louis puts a kettle on. They don’t talk while it boils; Evan looks at his phone, and Louis zones out. The kettle beeping brings him back to reality.

“What kind of tea d’you like?” he murmurs, grabbing a box of English Breakfast for himself. “I never remember.”

“Uh, literally whatever. Lemon, maybe?”

“Lemon sounds good, actually,” Louis says, stowing the box he just grabbed back in the cabinet and taking a box of honey lemon tea instead. He keeps forgetting that ever since he turned fifty, he can’t drink caffeine past ten anymore, or he’ll be getting up to piss all night long.

He puts a load of sugar in Evan’s mug and some milk in his own, then leads him over to the breakfast nook.

“How are you?” Louis says, looking at him over the rim of his mug as he blows on his tea to cool it.

Evan shrugs. “Okay.”

“Yeah?”

“I just try to take it one day at a time,” Evan mutters, looking out the window. “Try not to think about shit too hard.”

“Yeah.”

“It seems like there’s nothing we can do, right?”

“Seems like it,” Louis says. “I sort of think he has to come to his senses on his own, at this point.”

Once it became clear that Amir was adamant about going on this tour despite everyone’s objections and concerns, they pulled out the big guns: a sit-down intervention in L.A. with everyone present, Harry threatening Jeff that he’d leave him as a client if he didn’t put a stop to this, Evan threatening divorce. Nothing stuck, nothing worked. (And Harry almost immediately backed down from Jeff, which Louis still hasn’t really forgiven him for.)

Amir packed his bags the first week in February and left via LAX for the tour’s opening date in Gräfenhainichen, Germany. He’s been gone ever since.

“It’s my fault,” Evan says, sounding pained.

“It isn’t, love. It’s no one’s fault.”

“I don’t know what to do,” Evan says, meeting his eyes. “I thought this would be temporary. I thought if I gave him an ultimatum, he’d have second thoughts.”

“I know.”

“It’s fucking killing me.”

“I know it is.”

“Even if he comes to his senses, I dunno if I can forgive him for leaving.”

“He was in a lot of pain,” Louis says gently. “He still is. I’m not making excuses, I promise. He caused you no end of pain, and that’s not how you deal with things, and he knows that. He’ll have to reckon with that at some point. But he didn’t leave ‘cos he wanted to, he left ‘cos he felt like he had no other choice.”

“Yeah, I drove him away,” Evan says, and his eyes well with uncharacteristic tears. He scrubs them away with his sleeve.

“It wasn’t your fault. You’re both so young, still. The situation was above everyone’s pay grade.”

“He’s probably moved on already,” Evan bites out. “He’s probably fucking other people.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“Well, ‘cos I’m very tapped into the music industry gossip about what he’s getting up to on tour, and no one is saying he’s cheating on you.”

“Right, just that he’s doing a ton of drugs.”

“Aye,” Louis says, stuffing down the pang of worry that pricks his heart in response. “Enough drugs to kill a horse, correct.”

Evan chokes out a laugh. “How are you not more upset about that?”

“Oh, lad, I’m sick to me stomach every single day, here. I have to joke about it or I’ll lose the plot, that’s all.”

Evan nods.

They hear footsteps and both look up to see Patrick walking into the kitchen in his pajamas and sock feet, going for the fridge. “Hey,” he says to them, yawning. “Why’s everyone up?”

“Having a cuppa,” Louis says. “Why’re you up?”

“Got hungry.”

Louis watches Patrick tear open a bag of crisps, spilling a few on the floor. Goose, who follows Patrick everywhere, hurries over and starts eating the spilled crisps. Patrick takes no notice of this as he pours a handful of them into a bowl and then grabs himself a seltzer out of the open fridge before closing it.

“Paddy?” Louis says. “You know me and your dad have to go down to L.A. next week for a band meeting, yeah?”

Patrick nods. “You told me.”

“Okay, but you’re gonna be good, right? You’re not gonna throw any parties, yeah, and you’re gonna help Evan out with your niece?”

“Excuse me, am I not the best uncle in the world?” Patrick says, sounding offended.

“Uh, debatable,” Evan says.

Patrick gives him the finger. “Max is back from baseball camp tomorrow, anyway.”

“Yeah, but I’m not counting on him to rein you in,” Louis says. “So no, y’know, waiting ‘til we’re gone, disabling the security cameras, then having three hundred kids in me fucking house —”

“Oh, my God, it was one time!”

“— having drunk idiots smash up your dad’s greenhouse —”

“Dad! They broke _one pane_ of glass!”

“You don’t know when to quit, is my point. I don’t even care if you party, you know I don’t, can’t you just ever fuckin’ put a limit on anything?”

“Limits are oppressive,” Patrick says, and for a moment, he sounds and looks exactly like Amir, which freaks Louis out, because he’s the parent they have in common. Oh God, is that the _him_ in them? Is all this chaos his doing?

“Don’t talk nonsense,” Louis says, glancing back down at his tea. “Just behave yourself, and help Evan out.”

“I will! I can’t believe you think I’m not a good uncle.”

“You are a good uncle, you’re just also a troublesome teenager.”

“Well, you only have to put up with me for another month, and then I’m Sac State’s problem,” Patrick says, heading back out of the kitchen with his bowl of chips. Goose trots after him, his nails clicking on the floor.

“Love you,” Louis calls after him. “Good night.”

“Night, guys,” he yells over his shoulder.

“And?”

“Love you too!” His voice fades out on the tail of this as he disappears around the corner.

Louis sips his tea. “I shouldn’t bark at him so much,” he says with regret. “He’s right, I’ve only got another month with him.”

“Nah, I probably would too, if he was my kid,” Evan says. “Well, I dunno. Maybe. I don’t know what it’s like to parent somebody who has opinions beyond, like, ‘yellow shirt bad’.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t go back to parenting toddlers for anything,” Louis says. “At least you can try to reason with a teenager, even if you won’t have much luck wiv it.”

Evan hesitates before saying, “You _are_ kind of parenting a toddler, though.”

“Nah,” Louis chirps, pushing down the sick, empty feeling rising in his gut. “I’m grandparenting. Helpin’ you out. It’s temporary.”

“Is it?” Evan says, looking grief-stricken.

Louis squeezes his hand. “Yes. Drink your tea.”

Evan obliges.

“How was work this week?”

“Good,” Evan says. He brightens out of his gloom if you ask him about his work. “I mostly babysat a condor all week.”

“Was that fun?”

“I dunno about fun, but it was cool. They were really endangered at one point, but they’re coming back.”

“That is cool,” Louis says encouragingly, even though he’s not sure he actually knows what a condor is.

SACRAMENTO, JULY 4, 2042

Patrick didn’t even initially want the internship, when Louis first offered it to him. It’s because he pitched it as a social media internship, which is _not_ what Patrick is interested in doing, and he knew that meant all he’d be doing is reminding Louis what his Apple ID password is.

So Louis took the idea back to his 15-person team and talked with them, and they decided that Patrick could help out with band management a very little bit, and title himself a marketing and growth intern, instead.

Because of the nepotism of this, no one took him seriously at first. He got to sit in silently on all the big meetings and follow his dad around like a puppy during his June trips to London and New York, where he took care of exciting business like approving a new LT logo (from a collection of potential logos that all looked the same to Patrick) and arguing with Kosmonauta’s record label that they should be getting a $300,000 promotion budget for their upcoming tour, instead of the $250,000 the label offered (this is when Patrick’s ears started to perk up a little).

Louis ended up settling for $275k, and was openly ticked off about this on the taxi ride back to their hotel.

“Fucking pisser,” he said as they rolled through midtown. “I really thought I could get them to three.”

“What if,” Patrick said to him, “you got the other twenty-five from somewhere else in the budget?”

Louis glanced over at him. “What d’you mean?” he said.

“I mean rob Peter to pay Paul. Tour promo pays for itself, right? It’s an investment.”

“You’re not wrong,” Louis said, “but where would we pull an extra twenty-five grand from?”

“Leave that to me,” Patrick said.

Louis started laughing, but Patrick was dead serious. He started going over Kosmonauta’s books as soon as they got back to Sacramento, spending most of his time in LTHQ’s rented downtown office that overlooks the river, joined by Louis’ assistant Eliza.

He spent the last few weeks going over the data for Kosmonauta’s merch sales on their last tour, and by Saturday, he has his answer. The offices are empty except for him, Eliza, and a couple of cleaning ladies who are there to vacuum, but he doesn’t care. Patrick busts out of Louis’ office where he’s taken up residence and strides into the main room, announcing, “I got it!”

Eliza looks up from her MacBook. She’s eating a bag of veggie straws from the vending machine. “Got what?”

“I got the 25k back.”

“From where?”

“Merch! So here’s how the label budgeted it...” Patrick comes over to her table and sits down next to her, tossing down his print-outs. “They gave us 125k for merch, and that’s divided up here —” He points to a pie chart with the cost breakdown. “70k for online exclusive inventory, which makes sense, we can’t mess with that, and then 30k for merch table inventory. But I mapped it out —” (he points to a line graph that he made) “— and they’ve never once sold more than two hundred shirts at any given date. So as far as wholesale merch costs per date, that’s only, like, five hundred dollars. We don’t need to keep stock in hand beyond making sure we have two hundred shirts for each date. So beyond an initial up-front investment, we can just absorb those costs as we go, then take most of the merch table money and stick it back into promo.”

“‘We’?” Eliza repeats, sounding amused.

“Fuck off, come on. This is a good idea! I made graphs!”

“No, it actually is. Have you pitched this to your dad?”

“Not yet, he’s busy today. My niece has a doctor’s appointment or something, I don’t know, I don’t listen to shit.” He glances at her. “What do you think?”

“I’m impressed,” Eliza says. “But, I mean, it’s a little risky to not have all the inventory we’ll need in-hand up front. What happens if a date gets cancelled, or something, and we lose out on that income? You’re relying on something that isn’t necessarily reliable.”

“Worst case scenario, they just don’t have a merch table one night. Who cares? That just drives up online demand, and the money’s better off spent on promo, anyway. Ticket sales and online merch are where the money is. The merch table is an anachronism.”

“I think the band feels differently.”

“Well, the band is also an anachronism,” Patrick says. “This isn’t 1990.”

“You say it drives up online demand, but there are different designs being sold at the merch table than you can get online,” Eliza points out, and sips her latte.

“Right, which I’m against. It’s needlessly complicated.”

“Well, it gives fans incentive to actually come to the shows.”

“Seeing the band live is the incentive. A shirt is a shirt.”

“It’s a collector’s item, if you’re a true fan,” she says.

Patrick rolls his eyes, though in truth, he’s enjoying this debate immensely. “We could cut our wholesale costs by five percent if the merch was the same online as it is in person.”

“Right, but the band wants to reward their most loyal fans, who fly across the country to see them.”

“I don’t get that at all.”

“You don’t sound like you’re very sentimental about music,” Eliza says, smiling at him.

“I’m not,” Patrick says. “I honestly don’t get it.”

“What do you listen to?”

“I like trance and electrocore, but I only listen to music when I’m working out or driving.”

“If you didn’t look like Louis, I would really be wondering whose kid you are,” Eliza says.

“Look, I like the business side of music,” Patrick says. “There’s a shitload of money to be made everywhere, all the time. It’s crazy. As far as I’m concerned, being sentimental about the process only makes you miss out on money.”

“But life isn’t just about money,” Eliza says.

“Yes it is.”

She starts laughing, and Patrick shoots a smile at her to reassure her that he isn’t entirely serious. Eliza is very pretty, with shiny dark hair and dimples.

“What are you doing tonight, after you get done here?” he says.

“What am I doing?” she repeats. “Um, probably going back to my apartment and watching TV with my roommate.”

“No Fourth of July plans?”

She shrugs. “Nah. Why?”

“I’m getting dinner with my brother and his girlfriend, you should come with me. We can get a drink before we head over.”

“A _drink_? How old are you, again?”

“Eighteen, but I have a fake,” Patrick says.

Eliza blinks at him. He fishes his wallet out of his pocket and produces said fake, handing it to her. She holds it up to the light and squints at it.

“Very realistic,” she says, sounding impressed.

“Thanks, I made it myself,” Patrick says.

“What? How?”

“I used to sell them in high school. Uh, don’t tell my dad about that, by the way.”

Eliza laughs and hands it back to him. “You realize I’m ten years older than you?”

“So? It’s just a friendly drink between two coworkers.”

“Mhm,” she says, but she’s still smiling. He has her, he can tell.

*

April’s speech pathologist is a very sweet and patient older woman. Her name is Dr. Heather, and April loves her. She’s one of the few people that April always identifies by name, now. Louis is one of the others. At last month’s appointment, Heather told them that this is because “Lu-ee” is an easy sound to make, and easy to mimic from reading lips.

“Don’t you want her to call you Grandpa?” Evan said to Louis in response to this, and all the blood drained out of Louis’ face.

“Please don’t make me be Grandpa yet,” he begged. “I’m not ready to be Grandpa.”

“Not even Papa?” Evan teased him.

“Please no.”

So Lu-ee it is.

Heather’s office is brightly lit, colorful, and full of toys. Louis and Evan pile onto her squishy patchwork couch in the corner to wait for her while a nurse lifts April onto the exam table and starts examining her.

“April Iris Tomlinson-Malik?” the nurse reads off the chart she has pulled up on the wrist display of her watch. The glow from it lights the undersides of her and April’s faces, giving them both a blue tone.

“Yep,” Evan says.

Amir was the one who picked out her name. April for the Simon and Garfunkel song, Iris for the Goo Goo Dolls song.

“Okay,” the nurse says. “April, can you stick your arm out for me?”

April, who’s looking at a painting on the wall of colorful bears, pays her no mind.

“You might have to make eye contact,” Louis whispers. “She still tunes out people talking, a lot of the time.”

The nurse nods and meets April’s eyes before repeating herself. April sticks her arm out obediently, and has her blood pressure taken. “Do you talk to her at home, in addition to signing?”

“Yeah,” Evan says, somewhat defensively. “All the time.”

“Okay. And she’s eighteen months, now?” The nurse checks the chart. “So we’re six months post-implant?”

“Yes,” Evan says.

“Aw, born on Christmas,” she says, smiling at April, who smiles back.

“We’re nearly birthday twins,” Louis says. “I’m Christmas Eve.”

“That’s very cute.”

Amir was terribly upset when he went into labor on Christmas morning, half because she wasn’t supposed to come until February, and half because it meant the holiday was interrupted. “This sucks,” he kept saying. “I don’t want to have a baby today, I want to open presents.”

It was funny at the time, but it hurts Louis to think about now. The signs were probably always there that he wasn’t quite ready to be a parent, but everyone ignored them.

“She was moderately preterm with a low birth weight,” the nurse reads out, “resulting in severe sensorineural hearing loss?”

“Yes,” Evan says, examining his nails.

“And we’re here for our six-month implant check-up, plus our regular weekly session of speech therapy, correct?”

Louis nods.

“Okay. Dr. Heather will be right in.” She scoops April off of the table and carries her over to Evan, who takes her and settles her on his lap.

“What’s the sign for doctor?” Evan says to Louis.

“Ahh…” Louis taps the wrist of his left hand with his right one. “This, I think?”

Evan signs _ready for doctor?_ at her. April nods.

“Doctor,” Evan says, enunciating very clearly and carefully.

April nods again, but she’s mostly still interested in the bears.

“She’s fine otherwise, right?” Evan says to Louis. “Like all her milestones, and stuff? Her pediatrician always says so many numbers to me every time I take her, like all the percentiles, and when I ask her if everything’s good, she’s just like, ‘well, keep an eye on her’. It’s like she can’t just give me a yes or no answer, I dunno why.”

“She’s fine,” Louis assures him. “Trust me. I’ve seen a lot of babies.”

“And she’s not that small anymore,” Evan says.

“No, not at all. And she started walking early, so she’s got to be strong. She’s a very normal toddler overall, lad, I promise.”

“Yeah,” Evan murmurs, studying her face. April looks back at him and giggles. He tickles her a little, and she giggles some more. “Amir, um.” He pauses, then starts again. “He thought she’d never have a normal life. I dunno, I think he can’t… uh, couldn’t imagine a life without music.”

“You don’t have to use the past tense,” Louis says lightly. “He ain’t dead.”

“I know.”

“Maybe when she’s grown, the technology will be there,” Louis says, and clears his throat. “I wouldn’t assume she’ll never hear music. They’ve come so far with this shit in my lifetime alone.”

“I feel like I should keep my expectations low,” Evan says. “I dunno. That never really mattered a whole lot to me, anyway... music is just music. I just want her to be able to hear my voice when I yell for her, and stuff.”

“I get that.”

“I guess that it’s different for musicians.”

“It is, but Amir’s also, y’know. Bit of a drama queen.”

Evan laughs, but it’s a tired laugh. Louis glances at his right hand; he still hasn’t taken his wedding band off. Neither has Amir. Evan checks paparazzi photos for this habitually — Louis sees him do it on his phone, watches over Evan’s shoulder as he zooms in on his son’s fingers. They each breathe a silent sigh of relief every time they see it’s still there.

Louis knows it might not mean anything, it might just mean he doesn’t want the bad press he’d get from taking it off, because Amir’s press has been horrendous, lately. All the rags do is slander him as a horrid junkie deadbeat dad, a Courtney Love-esque monster. But he thinks it could be a sign that the boy they love is hanging on by a thread, that he might come back if he can manage it.

Heather comes in, then, clapping her hands together. “Hello hello!” She comes over and bends to greet April, kneeling down to her level.

“Hetter!” April exclaims.

“Yes! Hi!” Heather signs as she talks, with fluid ease. This is in strong contrast to Louis and Evan and Liam’s signing; each of them signs like a handcuffed person trying to land a plane while playing charades. Patrick isn’t half-bad at it, and Max is surprisingly excellent. He’s even signed up to take a class on it this fall at uni.

Amir is very good at signing, too. It’s one of the many reasons they miss him.

Heather gets to her feet with a groan and moves halfway across the room, as she always does for the listening check. April tries to toddle after her, and Evan reaches down to hold her steady. “No, no…”

April sat up by herself at five months, crawled at six, stood at eight months and started walking at nine. They were all at the beach on a family vacation, and April got upset about her parents being down in the surf without her, so she broke away from Sunday and started toddling toward them — her first steps.

Amir had been doing badly for a long time by then, but this absolutely delighted him. He had raced over to her and picked her up after she tumbled onto her butt, then rolled over to hoist her in the air, sand clinging to his black t-shirt and hair. “Did you just _walk_?” he exclaimed.

The memory sticks in Louis’ brain like gum. Every memory of Amir sticks in his brain like gum, interrupting the gears, breaking him down, making his breath leave him. _You failed him. You let him go. You drove him away. You failed him._

And superimposed over all of this is a memory of Zayn’s face: Zayn, twenty-two and smiling at him, squinting into the sun, his hair ink-black and his eyes happy.

Heather is making an s noise, now, her face turned away so April can’t read her lips.

“Sssss,” April mimics. “Sssssss.”

“Yes!” Heather turns back to her, beaming, and April beams back. Her eyes crinkle exactly like Amir’s, exactly like Zayn’s.

*

Max and Patrick have a sixth sense about each other, a twin telepathy that alerts them to the other’s presence in crowds. Patrick looks up before he even realizes he’s doing it and spots Max and Caroline walking into the pub, which is packed with Fourth of July revelers.

Patrick lifts his hand to wave, and Max’s eyes flick across the room and lock onto him. He smiles his 1,000 megawatt smile.

Patrick crooks his fingers impatiently, motioning them to the booth in the back of the pub that he and Eliza have taken up residence in. He doesn’t want to get mushy about being reunited — Max was only gone for a month, and he hates admitting how weird he feels when Max isn’t around. They’ve already agreed to room together off-campus when they start at Sac State in the fall. It seems like their future spouses are just going to have to be cool with them all living next door to each other, or something.

“I see them,” Patrick says, quickly crushing the rest of his gin and tonic and then pushing it across the table toward Eliza’s glass of wine so Max doesn’t bust his balls about it. “You ready to order dinner?”

“I think so,” Eliza says, though she’s still studying the menu. “I’m paying, by the way.”

“Please. No you’re not.”

“I’m not letting a teenager buy me dinner,” she says without looking up at him, her lips crooking up in a smile.

Patrick studies her. She pretends not to notice him, but her cheeks get redder the longer his eyes are fixed on her. “Consider this, I’d be using your boss’s money.”

“Hmm,” Eliza says.

“Hey,” Max says, stopping in front of their booth. Patrick gets to his feet and starts to dap him up; Max slaps his hand away as if insulted and pulls him powerfully into a bear hug. “We getting dinner here? I’m starving.”

“Yeah,” Patrick says, laughing. Max is constantly hungry from expending about 5,000 calories a day at the batting cages. “Hi Caroline.”

“Hi,” she says, waving and giving him a tiny smile. Still shy. Then again, Patrick constantly teasing her about being shy probably doesn’t help her to loosen up in his presence.

“This is Eliza,” Patrick says, gesturing to her before sitting back down.

Max takes the seat next to him in the booth, and Caroline slides in next to Eliza. “I know Eliza, dude. She’s worked for Dad for years. Hi Eliza.”

“Hi Max,” Eliza says, peeking over her menu. “How’ve you been?”

“Great,” Max says brightly. “This is my girlfriend Caroline.”

“Hi Caroline.”

Caroline waves again.

Max leans into Patrick’s personal space and sniffs his breath. “You smell like gin,” he mutters.

“Do you ever relax?” Patrick asks him.

“I’m always relaxed,” Max says, taking a large sip of Patrick’s ice water before looking up at their waiter, who’s just stopped by their table. “Hi. How are you? Can we get appetizers?”

“Oh, uh, sure,” the waiter says, reaching into his pocket for his notepad. “I’m good, how are you this evening?”

“I’m great, man, thank you.”

After a little bit of debate, they settle on wings for the table. Patrick, considering his cover blown, orders another G&T.

“I don’t even understand how you drink gin,” Max says, once the waiter is gone. “It’s so nasty.”

“The dads drink gin,” Patrick counters.

“Yeah, but they’re _British_.”

Eliza laughs.

Max glances between Eliza and Patrick, then, and furrows his brow. Caroline seems to pick up on this and turns to Eliza, saying, “Hey, I was going to go to the bathroom, you wanna come?”

“Oh, yeah,” Eliza says, getting up. “Good idea… this wine is hitting me.”

As soon as they’re gone, Max pulls the container of peanuts on the table toward himself and starts cracking their shells, dumping peanuts into his hand and tossing them into his mouth. “What are you doing here drinking with Eliza?” he says through a mouthful of peanut.

Patrick shrugs. “We work together. I invited her out.”

“Yeah? Are you trying to do her?”

“What? Dude!”

“‘Cos you know she’s like thirty,” Max continues. “And Dad would fire her.”

“No, come on. He wouldn’t.”

“For fucking around with his kid? With the mood he’s been in lately? Oh, yeah, he would.”

Patrick stops to consider this for a moment. As usual, he hadn’t been factoring in the long-term consequences of his actions. “Not if he didn’t find out,” he counters.

“Paddy,” Max says, shelling another peanut, “come on. He finds out about everything.”

“Shit,” Patrick says. This is a significant setback. He just wants to lose his virginity to someone with experience, not get this poor woman fired and incur Louis’ anger. “Hmm. Okay, but what if —”

“Don’t do it,” Max interrupts him.

“But — however —”

The waiter comes by with his gin and tonic, and he accepts it gratefully. Alcohol helps him think, or maybe it just gives him more of the terrible ideas that he loves to gleefully entertain. Either way.

“What if,” Patrick says, holding a finger up, “what if it was just a one-night stand? I think I could get away with that.”

“Why do you always have to get away with something?” Max says, spitting a peanut shell into his hand. “Why can’t you just hear ‘no’ and move on?”

“‘Cos then what would the point be?”

“The point of what?”

“Of anything,” Patrick says, sipping his drink.

Max appears to grapple with this existential dilemma for a moment before deciding he has no interest in doing so. “Look, do what you want, I said everything I was gonna say.”

“Alright. Received. How was baseball camp?”

“Great.”

“Yeah? You ready to go play club?”

Max laughs. “Listen, I probably could’ve gone D2, it’s just everyone told me not to bother. Mia told me the NCAA buys your soul and keeps it in a jar.”

“I know, I’m just fucking with you. It’s not like I’m playing college anything.”

“You could’ve done college lax.”

“Yeah, no,” Patrick says. “College years are prime partying years, I wasn’t gonna keep waking up at five a.m. for practice.”

Max nods in deep understanding. “When we live together, every morning when I leave for practice, I’m gonna sneak into your room and fart on your face,” he says, very seriously, like he’s giving a eulogy.

“If you do that even once, I’ll kill you,” Patrick says.

Max tosses the saliva-soaked peanut shell at him, which he expertly deflects. The women return, then, laughing with each other about something.

“So Max,” Eliza says as they sit, “Caroline tells me she’s at Berkeley, and you’re going to Sac State in the fall?”

“Yep,” Max says brightly. His cheerful expression doesn’t betray it, but Patrick knows he’s bummed that they’ll have to continue being long-distance. It was inevitable, though. Max was never going to get into Berkeley. It was a small miracle for him to make it into the CSU system in the first place.

“What are you studying?” Eliza says, sipping her wine. “Do you know yet?”

“Yeah, uh, kin…” Max stops and squints. “K… What is it?”

“Kinesiology,” Patrick helps him.

“Right, yeah, kinesiology. With a focus in psychology and leadership.”

Eliza nods. “What do you want to do with that?”

“Coach,” Max says immediately.

“Sports?”

“Yeah.”

“Where?”

“Wherever,” he shrugs.

“What age?”

“Whichever.”

“Which sport?”

“I’m not too picky, but probably baseball.”

“Alright,” Eliza says, nodding. “And Patrick, you’re studying business?”

“Business administration,” Patrick says. “But finance, specifically.”

“That makes sense,” Eliza says, and Patrick smiles.

Max glances between them. “So, Eliza,” he says. “Do you usually go on dates with eighteen-year-olds?”

Patrick chokes on his gin and tonic.

Eliza smiles thinly. “This isn’t a date, don’t worry.”

“I’m a little worried,” Max says. Patrick hits him on the arm while coughing and wiping gin off his chin.

“Well, don’t worry.”

Max studies her, and she appears to falter under the laser stare of his differently colored eyes. “Alright,” he finally says.

Caroline laces her hands together and rests them on the table, and she and Max exchange a significant look. Mercifully, their waiter chooses this moment to arrive with the plate of wings.

*

Louis starts having regrets the second he sits down in his new therapist’s waiting room. The faint sounds of smooth jazz and brewing coffee, plus the mingling smells of industrial cleaning chemicals and lilac-scented candles, do not have the presumably desired effect of calming him — instead they put him on edge.

He wouldn’t even be here if Liam hadn’t insisted, and if he hadn’t recruited Zayn and Mia, the therapy evangelists, to back him up. He told them all that he’s already been to therapy after the divorce, that it worked and served him well and his therapist cut him loose after four months, declaring him one of the most self-aware patients she’d ever worked with.

“But this is different,” Liam said. “This is a new thing.” (He always refers to what’s going on with Amir as ‘this’ or ‘all this’.) “Things keep happening to you over the course of your life, Tommo, you can’t go to therapy once and have it stick forever.”

So, fine, to shut them all up, he’s at therapy again, in this terrible claustrophobic waiting room, and his therapist is five minutes late, which is annoying. His knee bounces frenetically as he waits.

Finally the guy shows up, coming around the corner with a smile. He’s a middle-aged guy in glasses, seemingly mild-mannered, though he walks with the rod-straight posture of a military type. He extends his hand to Louis, who gets up and shakes it.

“Hi,” he says. “Sorry for the wait. I’m Justin.”

“Hi Justin.”

Justin beckons him down the hall, and they head for the only open office. “Sorry to schedule you so late in the evening, but I wanted to make sure you had privacy coming in… I don’t usually get noteworthy clients, so this is a little new for me.”

“No problem,” Louis says. “If you like, you can have a chat with my security team, they’re pretty smart about this sort of thing.”

“That would be very helpful, thanks. Have a seat,” Justin says, indicating the couch. Louis sits, putting a pillow behind his lower back to appease his ever-present lumbar discomfort, and Justin closes the door behind them, then heads for the chair in the corner. “So, how are you doing?”

Louis hesitates. “Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Er. Maybe not.”

Justin smiles. “What brings you in?”

“My husband forcing me at gunpoint,” Louis says drily.

He laughs. “You didn’t want to come?”

“No, I’m not anti-therapy, I’ve been before. I’ve sent me kids. Just not really sure what you can do for me.”

“Okay,” Justin says, nodding. “I would say, don’t think of it as what I can do for you, but what I can help you do for yourself.”

“I can’t do anything for me either,” Louis says. “I’ve done everything I can for me. My problems are external, mate, unfortunately.”

“That’s fine. Most people’s ultimately are, I think. What are the problems?” He picks up a stylus and pulls a tablet onto his lap, getting ready to write.

Louis feels nauseated, suddenly. “My son.”

“Okay. What’s going on with him?”

His heart is beating faster, and he presses a hand to where his pec meets his armpit in an effort to calm himself. Justin eyes him. “You want some water?”

Louis nods. Justin rolls his rolly chair over to a minifridge under the window and grabs a bottle of water out of it, then hands it to Louis, who takes it gratefully and has a few sips. The anxiety recedes.

“Um,” Louis says, clutching the cold bottle in his hands. The beads of condensation mingle with his palm sweat. “It’s sort of a long story.”

“We have an hour.”

“Alright. We’re, er, currently estranged. He’s sort of estranged from the whole family, actually, which is odd. We’ve always been very close.”

Justin nods. “How long have you been estranged?”

“Since February, but things sort of broke down before that.”

“Okay. Can you walk me through what happened?”

Louis swallows. “Yeah. So he had a baby wiv his husband, she’s like a year and a half old now, and he had a tough time wiv it…” He can hear his accent getting thicker, and he tries to modulate it so Justin can understand him completely, because he really doesn’t want to have to repeat any of this. “He had an emergency C-section, and I think that upset him, and his daughter had to stay in the NICU for a bit as well.”

Justin nods. “That can be traumatizing.”

“Yeah. And, er, right before he got pregnant, he got diagnosed with a type of bipolar, cyclo — cyclothymia? I dunno if you know it.”

“I’m familiar,” Justin says. “Not very, though. It’s kind of an uncommon diagnosis.”

“Yeah, he’s sort of uncommon overall. Well, and his other dad has bipolar two, so there’s a genetic bit to it.”

“Ah,” Justin says, lifting his eyebrows. He makes a note.

Louis sets his water down on the floor and wipes his damp hands on his jeans. “Anyway, we thought he had postpartum depression, but he started to seem, er, off. I think my son-in-law didn’t want to believe anything was seriously wrong, but they were living like a half hour away from us at the time, and I noticed something was weird. I had a bit of postpartum depression myself, and this seemed different, ‘cos sometimes he was really up, and he seemed a bit detached from reality.”

“Mmm,” Justin says, like he knows what’s coming. “So what happened?”

“He, ah… he had, er, postpartum psychosis, is what they told us, and they think he had a psychotic break. We aren’t totally sure what happened, ‘cos Amir doesn’t remember any of it. But while his husband was at work, he got a call from the police that a lorry driver had called 999 — ‘scuse me, 911 — after he, ah, found Amir standing in the road in front of their house, holding their daughter. The driver said he almost —“ Louis inhales. “Almost hit them, he said he hit the brakes just in time. Or that’s what he told the police, anyway… people tend to exaggerate in situations like that, in my experience.”

“Amir was just standing there?” Justin says.

Louis nods.

“Did he know he was in the road?”

“That’s what we don’t know. The ambulance blokes said he wasn’t responsive. I wasn’t even allowed to see him after, they sectioned him right away.” Louis swallows over the lump in his throat and breaks eye contact, looking at the floor.

“How old was his daughter?”

“Two, three months. Somewhere around there.” Louis pauses to collect himself. “It’s not like he tried to drown her, or something. He didn’t remember anything, I really don’t think he knew where he was.”

“Right,” Justin says gently.

“He loves her.”

“I’m sure. Psychosis is ego-dystonic in nature. It doesn’t align with reality, or our actual values and beliefs, it violates them.”

“Right. Anyway.” Louis blinks hard so he doesn’t cry, but of course, this has the effect of making a few tears leak down his cheeks. Justin hands him a tissue. “We couldn’t see him for ages. When we did, it was awful, he wasn’t himself. They had him on a million drugs, and none of them were working right, so he was like a zombie. He was in there for ages, and then they finally did electroshock on him, and that actually worked, and brought him back to mostly normal.”

“Mostly,” Justin repeats, lifting his brow.

Louis rubs his hands together, still not looking at him. He stares out the window at the office park across the road. “Mentally normal, yeah. Emotionally, I think he was sort of wrecked.”

“I can imagine.”

“We all tried to be there for him when he got home, but I think we made it worse. I think he thought we pitied him, or thought he was this broken little bird, like. And the worse thing was he felt like we didn’t trust him with his daughter, which was fair, ‘cos we sort of didn’t.”

Justin nods.

“His other dad, my ex-husband, he got through to him a bit, ‘cos he’s been through rehab and things like that,” Louis says. “But he still couldn’t relate to the feeling of, like, people bein’ scared to leave you alone with your own baby, who you, y’know, were pregnant with. And his marriage really started going bad too, ‘cos my son-in-law couldn’t understand any of it, ‘e was just afraid and stressed out all the time.”

“Did your son continue therapy, once he was out of in-patient?” Justin says.

“Yeah, but it mostly made him angry. He’s very smart, he doesn’t like being condescended to, and I think he feels like your type can be pretty condescending. No offense.”

“We can be,” Justin says, seeming not to have taken any.

“So, er,” Louis says. “My ex-husband’s current husband, he’s, er — well, it’s Harry Styles, so.”

“Oh,” Justin says, looking surprised. “Okay.” He writes this down, inexplicably.

“He’d been trying to do a favor for Amir a few years ago, hooking him up with his own manager, ‘cos Amir’s a musician, too. So his manager approached Amir last year in the fall about going on tour, being an opener for another artist he manages.”

Justin winces, suddenly.

“You alright?” Louis says.

“Yes, sorry,” Justin says. “I’m just realizing I’ve heard of your son, actually.”

“Yeah?”

“Just, like, things on social media. Sorry. It won’t interfere with my therapeutic duty to you.”

“You sure?” Louis says, mostly teasing him. He’s too used to this sort of thing to be thrown off by it.

“Yes,” Justin assures him. “Go on.”

“Alright. Well, obviously, yeah, he decided to go on tour. Which all of us were against, we thought it was an awful idea. I mean, he’d just got out of the psych ward, and he had a little baby at home. And she’s deaf, so she needs a lot of support, right now, we’re trying to catch her up with her peers. But I think Amir felt sort of, y’know, unsupported, and condescended to. The final straw is we had a sort of intervention where we all told him this was an insane idea, and his husband threatened to leave him if he went, and he looked at us like we were strangers and said, y’know. ‘Fuck all of you, I’m going.’”

“That was it?” Justin says.

“He might have called us jealous, washed-up has-beens,” Louis says lightly. “Can’t quite remember. Sort of blocking it out. But, yeah, he didn’t talk to any of us between then and when he left.”

“No communication since?”

“There’s been some. I try to reach out, I send him things about his daughter. Videos, and little updates. He reads them, he just doesn’t respond.”

“Is he in communication with her?”

“He FaceTimes with her, but he does it through the nanny, he doesn’t talk to his husband. We’re actually between nannies right now though, ‘cos the old one didn’t want to learn how to sign, so it’s been about a month… and we’ve been hearing his drug use on tour has been pretty heavy, ‘specially lately.”

Justin nods. “Was that a problem before?”

“Not since he found out he was pregnant,” Louis says, somewhat defensively. “He was doing some cocaine before that, always smoked weed, did molly in high school. Nothing serious. Was never shooting up, or anythin’, just party drugs.”

“Is he doing anything serious now?”

“God, no, I hope not. I’m just hearing cocaine and molly. Basic musician on tour shit, really.”

“And how are his husband and daughter doing?”

“Well,” Louis says, sighing, “they came to live wiv me and my husband, which has caused a bit of strain on us. He’s really heartbroken, my son-in-law. He feels like his entire life fell apart. They’re both only twenty-five now, so. Not very old to be going through this sort of shit.”

“No,” Justin agrees.

“And my own husband is sort of, like — I think he was excited for us to be empty nesters. We raised five kids together, and our two youngest are going off to college in August, and I think he was looking forward to us getting to be on our own for once. But now, of course, I’m, er, raising my granddaughter a bit. So he doesn’t love that, but he’s aces, he’s very good and supportive about this sort of thing.”

“What about Amir’s other father, and his husband?”

Louis shrugs. “I talk to them occasionally. I think Zayn’s a bit in denial about things… he thinks this is normal.”

“Zayn’s your ex?”

“Yeah. He spiralled out in a similar way at that age, though not as bad… but he never wanted Amir to get married or have a kid so young in the first place, so I guess his reaction makes sense. Harry feels guilty that he let his manager get his claws into me son, as he should be, so we haven’t talked much lately. Although our band is trying to do a reunion soon, so that might be a bit awkward, but we’ve worked through awkward before.”

“Sounds like you work through a lot of things,” Justin says.

“Yeah. Reckon I do.”

“And how are you?” Justin says, his voice gentle. “I’ve heard you describe the feelings of pretty much everyone in your life except you.”

Louis laughs a hiccupy, tearful laugh. “I feel great, why do you ask?”

“Are you using humor to deflect me?” Justin says, his eyes twinkling. “That won’t work.”

Louis laughs harder. “I’ll keep trying anyway.”

“I imagine you will.”

“I’m not doing that well,” he admits. “I have a lot of guilt, and anxiety, and shit. My oldest, my daughter, she feels the same way. She and my son were always very close, and she can’t get through to him either. She’s been properly angry about it. I guess I am too.”

“Angry at who?” Justin says. “Amir?”

“Yeah, but moreso myself, and Harry, and Zayn, and Jeff, and all of his doctors. Everyone who failed him. Mostly myself.” Louis sniffs. “There were always warning signs… I dunno. He’s always been sensitive. He was my sensitive little boy, I was always afraid he’d slip away from me like this. It feels like the other shoe finally dropped.”

“You think you could have controlled this situation, and you failed to,” Justin says.

Louis nods.

“But what could you have done?”

Louis shakes his head, hot tears welling in his eyes again. He feels shaky and unsure, but relieved at the same time. It’s been so long since he last cried about this. He used to cry himself to sleep in Liam’s arms, but eventually that began to feel like an unfairness to Liam. He knows how much Liam hates watching him be in pain. “I dunno,” he finally answers. “Got him help before he had the psychotic break, I guess.”

“But it sounds like you suspected he wasn’t okay. Did you make these concerns known?”

“I asked him all the time if he was doing alright, if he needed anything. I mentioned it to his husband, Evan.”

“What did Evan do?”

Louis shrugs. “I don’t think he knew what to do.”

“Right, because none of you are doctors or psychologists who were charged with Amir’s treatment,” Justin says gently. “So maybe, in the end, there actually wasn’t a whole lot you could do.”

“No,” Louis insists, wiping his tears with the tissue. “I could have.”

“Could you, though? Could you have cured psychosis single-handedly? It’s a result of chemical imbalances in the brain. And it sounds like your son had a relatively intractable case, if ECT was what they had to resort to.”

A sob escapes Louis.

“It seems like you tried everything you could think of to stop him from going on tour, as well,” Justin adds. “An intervention, an ultimatum. He’s not a little boy, he’s an adult, and in the end, adults make their own decisions. What were you going to do — have him arrested? Have him committed, again, when it sounds like that was a traumatizing experience for him?”

“No,” Louis admits, wiping his cheeks.

“The only thing you can control is yourself, and your own decisions,” Justin says. “You have to accept that you don’t know what Amir will do.”

“I know that. I’m trying to take it one day at a time.”

“Good. That’s exactly what I would recommend.”

Louis sniffles.

“How are you feeling physically?” Justin says, studying him. “Are you having trouble sleeping, or anything?”

Louis shakes his head. He sort of is, but lately, Amir is always appearing in his dreams. They’re nice ones — he dreams all the time of Amir coming home and apologizing. He doesn’t want anything to mess with those.

“No,” he says.

*

The self-driving Uber takes Eliza back to her place, first, because it’s close to the pub. She lives in a high-rise building downtown, overlooking the river and nestled beside the 5.

“Alright,” Eliza says, glancing across the backseat at him. “This is me.”

“Let me walk you to the door,” Patrick says.

She laughs. “Okay.”

The moon is full in the sky tonight, there are still fireworks going off over parts of the city, and the 5 is humming with Saturday traffic. It’s a pretty view. Eliza is also very pretty; Patrick studies her face when she turns to him and brushes her hair back behind her ear.

“Listen,” she says, with an apologetic look.

A-ha, he’s about to be Told Something. Everyone in the world is in the business of Telling Patrick Things.

“You’re very cute,” Eliza continues. “And charming. But you’re eighteen, and your dad is my boss.”

“How old are you?” Patrick says. “You don’t look that old.”

“Gee, thanks. I’m twenty-eight.”

Ten years. Could be worse.

“I won’t tell him anything,” Patrick says.

Eliza continues smiling at him, as she has been all night. Very self-incriminating of her. “I get why you like me,” she says.

(He’s about to be Told More Things.)

“Yeah?” Patrick says. “Why’s that?”

“Because I’m a grown adult professional who respects your brain,” she says. “And you seem kind of desperate for that.”

Patrick is quieted by this. Eliza leans up to kiss him on the cheek. She smells like floral perfume, and her lips are warm where they touch him.

“Don’t be in such a hurry to grow up,” she whispers. Then she turns, and she’s gone, swiping her watch against the RFID reader by the apartment lobby doors and heading inside.

LYON, FRANCE, JULY 5, 2042

Amir is very good at getting rid of the backstage girls now. He and Jason have practically made an artform out of it. After Jya’s set wraps up, they always find him, three or four or five of them. Sometimes a few or all of them are guys, but it’s mostly women, and one of them always has either a rich parent or some connection with the venue, and they all want to fuck him.

Tonight it’s three French girls, each with thick accents but impeccable English. They appear from nowhere and crowd into the green room while Amir is preparing his post-show lines of crushed-up Xanax. And like all the others, they start fawning over him, telling him how good his set was, asking when his album is coming out.

“I dunno,” he mutters, looking around for Jason, desperate to be left alone so he can do his drugs and go pass out in his hotel room.

“If you’re lookeeng for zomeone for a music veedeo, I do a leetle acting and modeling,” offers the hottest of the girls, Adele.

Jason appears, then, coming up behind the girls. Amir shoots a look of ‘where the fuck were you?’ at him, and he makes an apologetic face.

“Hi,” he says, sidling up to them all.

“This is my friend Jason,” Amir says, indicating him. “If you want to party, you can go party with him.”

The girls look put out.

“What eef we want to party with _you_?” asks the blonde. Her name starts with a C, but Amir’s brain is way too obliterated from his pre-show coke to remember the rest of it.

“I might join you later,” Amir lies. “You’re in good hands with Jason, don’t worry. He’s very fun.”

Jason smiles at them. “My dad’s a billionaire,” he says to no one in particular.

“Is he?” Adele says, extending a tanned, braceleted arm. “Nice to meet you, Jay-son.”

“Very nice to meet you ladies. So where are the good clubs in Lyon?”

“Oh, we’ll show you,” she says, draping an arm around his shoulder, and with that, the four of them depart. The blonde shoots a look at Amir over her shoulder as she goes, but he’s already bending over to snort the Xanax up through a tightly rolled twenty. It always burns his sinuses so badly, but the calm that settles over his brain is powerful and immediate, like anesthesia.

*

When Amir returns to his hotel room, Lionel is already there, sitting on his bed and drinking wine.

“I don’t want any,” Amir says, in response to Lionel extending a glass to him. He crosses the room to close his curtains, shooing away a beautiful view of the Rhône sparkling under the moonlight. “I want to do more Xanax and go to bed.”

“Alright,” Lionel says amiably. “Why am I here, then?”

“Just to talk.” Amir starts stripping his clothes off until he’s in his black boxer briefs and goes into the bathroom, wetting a hand towel and rubbing it over his face, stripping away the little bit of glam rock makeup he’s wearing. He avoids making eye contact with himself in the mirror as he does this.

“This is the fifth city you’ve called me to _just to talk,”_ Lionel calls, his voice echoing into the bathroom. “Not to be crude, but I was assuming that at some point I was going to get to fuck you.”

Amir snorts. Lionel is a sort of disgusting person — a middle-aged, married cellist, an expat from New Hampshire who’s in love with how cultured he thinks he is from spending the last two decades in Europe. But he’s also a brilliant musician who Amir can talk to for hours about music theory, and his presence is paternal and comforting in a way that Amir unfortunately does find kind of sexy.

He would never fuck Lionel, though, even if he were fucking other people, which he’s not doing. Not even out of lingering loyalty to Evan, who he’s furious at, but because he knows anyone who wants to fuck him right now would just be taking advantage of his diminished state, and the very thought makes him want to scream. He has enough fight left in him to refuse to be a sex toy for debauched old cellists.

And he won’t become his father. He refuses to become Zayn any more than he already has; he won’t cheat. He’d get a divorce first, like a man should.

“You don’t get to fuck me,” Amir says, appearing in the doorway, enjoying how much the sight of his mostly naked body is clearly tormenting Lionel. “You can hang out and do my drugs, but you don’t get to fuck me.”

“You’re a rotten little flirt, do you know that?”

“I do.”

“I know you think it’s funny to tease everyone, but men really don’t like that. How would you feel if someone gave you a hard-on and then told you no, never mind?”

“I dunno,” Amir says, shrugging. “That’s never happened to me.”

Lionel sighs. “Brat. Come lie down with me, at least.”

“I was just about to.” Amir goes over and collapses onto the bed, his head buzzing and tingling pleasantly.

Another reason he keeps calling Lionel over is because he hates sleeping alone. At times on tour he’s even made Jason sleep in his bed, just so he can hear someone else breathing.

“What do you want to talk about?” Lionel says, putting his wine down on the table and lighting a Gauloise.

“Gimme one,” Amir says, sticking his hand out. Lionel complies. “I dunno. Tell me stories about what Warsaw was like in the twenties.”

“Warsaw is beautiful,” Lionel says, blowing out smoke. “Have you ever been there on August first? They commemorate the uprising, from World War Two. Every year, they set off flares, and the whole city turns pink.”

Amir rolls over onto his back so he can light his cigarette. “What’s the music scene like?”

“It’s small, but it’s fun. Poland is heaven for the rave scene, which I dabbled in a little in my early twenties. They have great counter-culture there.”

Amir hands Lionel’s lighter back to him. Lionel glances over at him, then runs a hand over his hip, thumbing at the purple, faded C-section scar that arcs over Amir’s pelvis. Amir smacks his hand away.

“Knock it off,” he says, his tone unmistakable.

That scar is the only visible remember of his pregnancy. He hardly gained any weight while he was pregnant, his nausea was too bad, and he was only 33 weeks along when she was born. No stretch marks, no lingering baby weight, just a scar from where they scalpelled into him so they could yank her out after her blood pressure plummeted.

He begged to see her after, but they kept her away for ages, giving her to Evan to hold while they stitched him up and made sure he wasn’t about to bleed out on the table. That was the first time he remembers being really angry at Evan about the lopsidedness of parenthood — when he was lying there half-anesthetized, numb from the waist down, staring at the ceiling of an operating room while Evan got to spend their daughter’s first moments on earth with her. It wasn’t his fault, but Amir was angry at him all the same.

“Do you miss her?” Lionel says. “Your daughter?”

Amir breathes out smoke. “Yes.”

“I figured,” he says. “I think it’s always worse when you carry them. My husband hates being away from ours, but I don’t mind as much.”

“Clearly, since you’re here in my bed instead of home with them,” Amir says.

“Et tu,” Lionel counters.

“It’s better for me to be away from her,” Amir mutters.

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

“Alright,” Lionel says, like he doesn’t really care either way.

Amir smokes more furiously. “Those fucking hypocrites that call themselves my family agree, even if they’d never admit it. Even if they act like I’m a monster for leaving her. Fucking idiots. They didn’t want me around her, what did they expect me to do?”

“I’m not sure,” Lionel says. He has no idea what Amir’s talking about, of course.

“Whatever. Stop ruining my high. Did you listen to that piece I sent you?”

“I did.”

“What did you think?”

“It was very good, for improv,” Lionel says. “You’re a highly intelligent pianist.”

The gaping wound in the center of Amir is momentarily soothed. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

They smoke in silence.

Amir is extra sensitive on the topic of his family today. He got a video of April from Louis this morning, one of her playing with Goose in the yard. Watching it made him feel like his stomach was turning inside out. She’s grown so much since he left.

He doesn’t know what Louis is trying to do by sending him these things. He’s keeping him updated on his child, allegedly, but it feels to Amir like a form of control. As if he doesn’t already feel like a monster? Does he really need to be manipulated into feeling worse, and by his own father, the one person who’s supposed to never judge him and always love him?

Every time Louis texts him, Amir wants to call him and start screaming at him. You made me feel like I wasn’t wanted, he wants to say, you made me feel like a damaged fucking freak, and you drove me away, and this is what you get. But he won’t give Louis the satisfaction of contact. He loves his dad, and that’s why he needs him to suffer, he needs them all to suffer the way he’s suffering. He needs them to feel his pain.

The only innocent is April, and it’s fine that he left her, because he shouldn’t be around her anyway, right? He knows that’s what everyone thinks. He’s a lunatic who almost killed them both, almost committed a nightmarish murder-suicide, and if he’d done it, no one would have ever known he didn’t mean to. No one would have ever known he wasn’t aware of a single thing that happened that day.

All Amir remembers is waking up some time later in a sterile room, strapped to a bed by four-point restraints, and none of the strangers around him would tell him where he was.

SACRAMENTO, JULY 7, 2042

Mia turns up on Louis and Liam’s doorstep the morning they’re due to leave for L.A., looking like hell, with an empty iced coffee cup from Starbucks in her hand.

“Yo,” she says, when Louis opens the door. She has raccoon-like dark circles under her eyes, and her Audi is parked somewhat haphazardly in the circular driveway behind her.

“Hi,” Louis says. “It’s half eight, I didn’t even think you got up this early.”

“Yeah, well.”

He laughs. “Haven’t been to bed yet, have you?”

Mia sighs. “No.”

“Alright, come in.” Louis leads her into the house. No one else is up yet besides Liam, who’s tending to his plants one last time before they leave. “What brings you out here?”

“I was thinking,” Mia says, “that I could come down to L.A. with you guys.”

“Haven’t you got practice?”

“Not ‘til Wednesday,” Mia says. “We’re officially in a rebuilding year.”

Louis stops mid-hallway and turns to her. “Alright, what happened with Katarina?”

Mia smiles wanly at him. “Nothing. But she’s been cut from the team.”

“Mims…”

“Dad, everything’s fine. She’s cut, I’m free, and I want to come with you guys, see Dad and the girls. Hey, why don’t we bring April? She doesn’t get to see Dad often enough. I can babysit her, take her off your hands for a while.”

Louis hesitates. That would alleviate his worries about leaving his granddaughter here with his flagrantly maudlin son-in-law and two frat boys in training. “Actually, that’s not a half bad idea.”

Mia brightens. “See? There you go.”

“You’ll have to get a plane ticket, though.”

“Already did.”

Louis shoots another look at her.

“I just want to get out of town for a bit,” Mia exclaims. “Why is that so weird?”

“Alright, come with me and tell Evan you’re taking his baby, then.”

They head up the stairs, their shoes making a thwiffing sound on the marble and then a clicking sound on the hardwood floors. Louis pauses in front of the door to Evan’s room, which used to be one of their guest rooms, and knocks. “Hullo?” he calls.

“Yeah,” Evan calls back.

“You up?”

“Yeah.”

“Can I come in?”

“Yeah.”

Louis opens the door. Evan is sitting on top of his comforter in his pajamas, hanging out with April, who’s sitting next to him and engrossed by an iPad that he’s holding. She’s also in pajamas, and has pretty bad bedhead.

“It’s not screentime, I swear,” Evan says to Louis sheepishly. “I’m just showing her a video of the condor. Hey, Mia.”

“Hey,” Mia says. She goes into the en-suite bathroom and bangs around a little, then comes back out with a hairbrush and takes it over to April, starting to comb out her hair. “What condor?”

“We’re rehabilitating him at the wildlife center.”

Mia peers over April’s shoulder. “Holy shit, what’s the wingspan on that thing?”

“Ten feet!” Evan says, sounding proud.

“Jesus.”

April finally twigs to Mia’s presence and turns around, chirping “Bia!” She still has trouble differentiating ‘M’ and ‘B’. The mouth shapes are very similar, Heather has explained.

“Hi!” Mia says, haphazardly signing hello to her. Mia is the worst signer out of all of them — by her own admission, she signs like a drunk hobo. “Hi sweetie. You’re gonna come with me to Los Angeles, okay? We’re gonna fly on a big airplane.”

“She’s gonna what?” Evan says, glancing at Louis.

“Yeah, we thought we might take her off your hands for a few days,” Louis says. “Zayn likes to see her, and the girls do too. They are her aunts, an’ all that.”

“Yeah,” Evan says, glancing down at April, whose attention is back on the iPad.

“I’ll take good care of her lad, I promise.”

“I know.” He pets her blonde head. “Sorry, you know how I get.”

“I do,” Louis says. Evan worries about April loads, for understandable reasons. “I was actually hopin’ to give you a break from that.”

“So was I,” Mia adds.

Louis squints at her. He keeps getting the feeling that she has an ulterior motive here, which is weird, because she usually wouldn’t need one to visit her dad and sisters, or to take care of April. But there’s something unnatural and pressured about the way she keeps insisting on going to L.A.

MALIBU, JULY 7, 2042

Marlena and Toni are the ones to greet them at the door, likely because Mia had texted them from the plane and let them know April was coming for a visit.

“Where’s April?” Marlena asks of Louis as soon as she sees him, having flung the door open as he was walking up the grand front steps. She’s nearly as tall as he is, now. From behind her, Toni peeks out, scanning the front yard.

“She’s coming,” Louis promises. “Mims has her.”

“Hi Louis,” Toni says, flashing him a smile.

Louis smiles back. He’s always liked Toni. She and Marlena are peas in a pod, but total opposites — where Marlena has inherited the aloofness that both Zayn and Harry each tend to affect at times, Toni is entirely warm, like she’s lit from within.

“I’m here,” Mia says from behind them. Louis turns and sees her heading up the walk with April in her arms. April’s light hair is glowing in the harsh summer sun. Liam is behind them, his hands in his pockets.

Marlena extends her arms to accept April, who doesn’t appear to mind being passed around and starts playing with Marlena’s necklace. “How was your flight?” she says, glancing up at the three of them.

“Good,” Louis says. “Short.” He’s dreading seeing Harry and Zayn, and it felt like their plane landed as soon as it took off. “Is Niall here?”

“Yeah, he got here pretty early, a few hours ago,” Toni says. “Our dads are in the kitchen making a charcuterie board.”

“Ooh,” Liam says with interest.

Louis isn’t particularly hungry, himself. He feels sick all the time lately; his weight has yo-yoed back down again.

“She’s _so_ cute,” Marlena says of April. “Is she talking, now? With the ear thingy?”

“Yeah, loads,” Louis says.

“Can you talk to me?” Marlena says to April. “I’m your aunt. Call me Aunt Marlena.”

Something is amusing about a 14-year-old begging to be addressed as “Aunt” anything, but Marlena has always been odd in a distinctly Harry-ish way. April attempts to say something, but before she can get anything out, Niall appears behind the girls.

“Oi!” he says. “Hullo baby.” He gives April a quick tousle of the hair and then squeezes past Marlena to head for Louis, pulling him into a hug. “Hi Tommo.”

“Hi,” Louis says, patting his back. “You alright?”

“Yeah!”

The hug lingers for a little too long.

“I’m also alright,” Louis says testily.

“I know!” Niall says, but he doesn’t let go of him.

Mia comes over and joins them, wrapping her arms around them both.

Niall laughs. “Hi Mims.”

“Hi.”

Finally, Liam gets in on it, too, and presses a tender kiss to Louis’ temple that makes emotion well dangerously in Louis’ chest.

“Alright, let go of me,” he says, fighting his way out of their arms and stepping back. “Let’s get to business, yeah?” He squeezes Niall on the shoulder to let him know he isn’t being rejected, and Niall squeezes him back to indicate that he knows this.

“How long are you guys going to be meeting for?” Toni says.

“A couple hours, at least,” Liam says.

“Ugh,” Marlena says. “Boring. Do you want April back?”

“I’ll take her,” Mia says. “I can hang out with you guys, if you want.”

Marlena studies her, looking a little defensive — Mia intimidates her. “Okay. We’re just watching streams.”

Mia shrugs. “I’m down with that.” She reaches out and takes April, who looks over Mia’s shoulder at Louis as the girls head inside the house. She doesn’t seem concerned, though — she trusts Mia. Louis smiles at her and waves. She waves back and mouths “Lu-ee” at him. He signs _yes_ at her.

The three of them are left on the stoop together in an awkward silence. Niall clears his throat.

“I think Harry bought some good cheese,” he says, rather lamely. “Cheeses. He was talking about cheese this morning… I wasn’t really paying attention, though.”

Liam nods. “Well,” he says, and he and Niall exchange a loaded look.

They’re clearly both waiting for Louis to move, but he feels glued to the porch. He forces one of his feet to move, and the other follows naturally. He steels himself and leads them into the house, forcing himself past his fear. Fuck it. He’ll just let Liam and Niall do most of the talking.

Harry and Zayn are in the kitchen, as promised. Zayn is sitting on a barstool at the wide, gleaming expansive of their white marble island, and Harry is standing adjacent to him, chopping up a Persian cucumber. Faint, calming instrumental music is playing from no identifiable source — probably a ceiling-mounted speaker. It reminds Louis of what was playing at his therapist’s office.

“Hi,” Louis says to announce himself, probably unnecessarily.

“Hi hi,” Harry says, not looking up from his cucumber, although his cuts have suddenly become very exacting and loud. “D’you all want to grab drinks and go hang out in the studio? I’m nearly done here.”

“Sure,” Liam says. 

Louis makes eye contact with Zayn, who nods at him, then goes over to the fridge and opens it. “Wot,” he says, “three beers? Two waters, one beer?”

The three of them look at each other and simultaneously reply, “Beer.”

Zayn nods and starts launching IPA cans at them underhand, like a human t-shirt gun. Once they’ve each caught one, he returns to his seat and flips a page in the music magazine he’s reading. “Where’s the baby?” he says to Louis.

“With all your daughters,” Louis says. “Upstairs somewhere. I’m assumin’ you’re not joining us for the meeting?”

“We’ll see,” Zayn says.

Harry rolls his eyes almost imperceptibly. There seems to be some tension between them, which makes Louis eager to vacate the kitchen. He pops the top on his beer and disappears around the corner, with Liam and Niall following on his heels like obedient hunting dogs.

There’s even more art on the walls than usual, Louis notices. Harry buys art when he’s feeling guilty about being gone, and he was gone filming a movie for half of 2041. He came back just in time to fail to undo the havoc that Jeff had wreaked in his absence.

Their studio is massive, now — when they remodeled after the earthquake, their contractor apparently recommended knocking out one of the walls upstairs to make the house more ‘wiggly’, so they knocked out the wall that divided the studio from a parlor room, and turned the parlor into a lounge with long leather couches, dozens of plants, and a state-of-the-art speaker system. Louis settles onto one of the couches and kicks his feet up on the table, drinking his beer while Niall and Liam walk around the room, discussing the technical specs of every piece of equipment they come across.

“See, this is the sorta horsepower I want,” Niall says, pointing to the massive mixing board that’s resting against the window into the recording booth. “But I don’t think I _need_ it.”

Liam shrugs. “Give yourself a treat.”

“I don’t think you even need a set-up like this unless you’re mixing your own shit,” Niall says. “I know Harry never even does that. Zayn does, a bit, but has he even made music lately?”

“He said he was fucking around in the studio a few months ago,” Louis says, drinking more of his beer. Oops, it’s nearly gone. “Dunno, though.”

“Mixing is fun,” Liam says. “I like to play around with older stuff from the band, and older stuff of mine, once I’ve got enough distance from it that it feels like someone else.”

“That does sound fun,” Niall says.

“You could go in and lay down new guitar tracks on old songs,” Liam suggests. “Get a crunchier sound.”

Louis leans back against the couch cushion, closing his eyes and just listening to them talk. It’s comforting.

“If I was gonna do that, I’d just re-record my old shit entirely,” Niall says. “I sorta hate my twenties voice. Feels so unmatured. Plus, what the fuck was I singin’ about? What did I know about life? Nothin’. I could mess around with old band stuff, though, that’d be fun.”

“‘Cos we knew so much about life back then,” Liam jokes.

“Yeah, but it was a collective failure to understand. It gets so cringey when it’s just you, nobody else to pin the blame on.”

The door opens, then, having been kicked open by Harry, whose hands are full with the cheese board.

“Sorry,” he says. “Don’t mean to come in like the police. We all settled?”

“Yeah, we’re just lustin’ over your studio,” Niall says, running his hand over the keys of the mixing board.

“Oh, yeah,” Harry says, sounding weirdly disinterested in his own belongings. He comes over to where Louis is and sets the charcuterie board near him, then backs away and sits down almost an entire couch length away from him. “Alright… we ready?”

“You in a hurry or something?” Louis asks him.

Harry makes eye contact with him for the first time since he arrived, and shakes his head.

Liam and Niall come back over, then, seeming eager to avoid prolonged one-on-one conversation between Louis and Harry, presumably thinking of the Great Hotel Slapfight of ‘36. Louis feels bad, then, and tries to take a deep breath, but his chest hurts like a knife is embedded in it.

Liam sits very close to Louis, so the lengths of their thighs are pressed together, and starts piling salami and cheese onto a cracker. “So,” he says.

Niall sits down equidistant between Harry and Louis, as if to bridge the awkward gap between them.

“So,” Harry repeats, clasping his hands together. “How… how have we all been?”

“What, since the last time we all got together?” Louis says with sarcasm. The last time the five of them saw each other was Amir’s intervention.

(That was also the last time he was at Zayn and Harry’s house, actually. Suddenly his intense discomfort about being here makes more sense to him.)

“Well, y’know, generally,” Harry says, sounding flustered.

“I’ve been alright,” Liam says.

“Can’t complain,” Niall adds, nodding.

“I’ve been properly shitty,” Louis snaps at no one in particular.

Niall just nods in response to this, monk-like. Harry stares at his shoes.

“Alright, what’s going on?” Louis demands. “Why’s everyone bein’ so evasive?”

Harry spreads his hands. “Keep calm and carry on,” he says, deadpan. Niall stifles a laugh with the back of his hand.

Louis turns to Liam, who breaks eye contact and starts rubbing at the back of his neck. “I sort of asked them to maybe not bring up anything to do with you-know-who in front of you,” he says apologetically. “I was hoping we could avoid the subject entirely, for your sake.”

“Yes, ‘cos you know me, I love to avoid subjects entirely.”

“Yeah, maybe it wasn’t the most brilliant idea.”

“We can talk about him,” Louis says, turning back to Harry and Niall. “I just don’t really enjoy doing it, and I haven’t got much to tell you, is all.”

“Liam’s filled us in,” Niall says. “On, like, what you know, anyway. We’re just wondering how you’re doing.”

Harry is staring at the cheese board, his face an inscrutable mask.

“I’m alright,” Louis says. “Really.”

“Have you heard from him?” Harry says in his low voice, meeting Louis’ eyes.

“No,” Louis says shortly. “Not for months. Your husband would know if I had.”

“He opens your texts, though?”

“Yeah, he leaves me on read.”

“That’s something,” Niall says optimistically.

“I suppose it’s better than being left on delivered, or blocking me number,” Louis allows.

Liam is preparing another cracker; this one he gives to Louis.

“I’m not hungry,” Louis says automatically.

“Yes you are. You haven’t eaten yet today.”

“I feel sick.”

“I know, but you still have to eat.” Liam nudges him and offers the cracker again. “Please. Or I’ll have to get a feeding tube put in you, and that’s going to be gross.”

“Like that bird and her mum,” Louis murmurs.

“Yeah, exactly. Wait, which?”

“The murderer bird.”

“Sure,” Liam says eagerly, putting the cracker into his hand, like agreeing with him will trick him into eating.

Louis puts the cracker in his mouth and chews. It’s very expensive deli meat and cheese and fig spread, and probably a very expensive cracker as well, but it tastes to him like a shoelace. He manages to swallow it anyway.

“Have you spoken to Jeff lately?” he says to Harry, after washing the cracker down with the rest of his beer. “I assume you have. You said in the group chat that you’ve been working on solo shit as well.”

Harry looks uneasy. “I have, yeah.”

“And?”

Long pause. “I don’t mention Amir.”

Louis’ face gets so hot that his scalp starts tingling. “Right,” he says, his voice coming out high-pitched. “Very normal of you.”

“Lou, I’m sorry, I just don’t want to argue with him about it. There wouldn’t be any point, he knows how I feel.”

Louis snorts, staring at the table, unseeing. Liam rubs his back.

“I don’t know what you want me to do,” Harry says.

“Stop being such a fucking coward!” Louis barks at him, startling everyone. Niall jumps and sloshes his beer onto his thigh. “He’s your stepson! He’s not just some boy you sort of know and feel sorry for, you’ve parented him! How can you let that fookin’ creep get away with this!”

“Lou, I’m not,” Harry says, sounding emotional. “I just don’t know what to do. Tell me what you want, and I’ll do it… Should I drop my manager of nearly thirty years? Would that do anything? It wouldn’t make Amir come back. It would just cut me off from one of the few people who has any sort of control over him right now.”

“It’s the principle of the thing,” Louis snarls. “He’s a shithead for doing what he did.”

“He didn’t know how sick Amir was.”

“Yes, he did, he just had dollar signs in his fookin’ eyes. And you’re making excuses for him ‘cos all you care about is money, too. How’s that money serving you now, mate? Here in your massive beautiful house, you and Zayn, but where’s my son? Where’s my baby? Where was your fuckin’ money then, huh?”

Harry takes in a very deep breath and gets up, starting to pace. “Please,” he begs.

“ _Please_ what?”

Liam continues to rub Louis’ back, but he and Niall are dead silent.

Harry doesn’t speak for a long moment, before spreading his hands and facing Louis. “Fine,” he says. “I’m weak.”

Louis stares at him in silence.

“Does it really _do it_ for you to hear me admit that?” Harry demands. “Does it fix anything… help anything? Or do you just get to feel superior? Yes, you’re braver than I am. Fucking obviously. I’ve never claimed to be a very _brave_ person. And I’m sorry that I couldn’t help your son, I would do anything to undo the role I played in him leaving, but honestly, Louis, you’re just looking for someone to blame, and it isn’t fair to put it on me.”

“I’m not,” Louis says through his teeth, “but you could dump Jeff.”

“Did it ever occur to you that Jeff feels terrible about what happened, and is worried about Amir, and is trying to work out how to fix this —”

“Oh, please, he’s worried about his BOTTOM LINE —”

“Oh, so what?” Harry demands. “What do you think this is, a tea party? You’ve been in this industry for more than three decades! Do you expect Jeff to love Amir like a son? Did Simon Cowell love _you_ like a son?”

“Just stop lying! Stop pretending that you’re clinging onto Jeff because there’s some moral reasoning behind it, instead of it just being about money!”

“It isn’t all about money,” Harry cries. “It’s about me as an artist. Yes, I’m terribly angry at Jeff, I just don’t see how destroying our relationship would fix things! Jeff can help us bring him back!”

“Oh, can he? Where is our boy Jeff, then?”

“Fine, alright — he’s going to see Amir tomorrow, in Lisbon! He wants to talk to him about the bad press he’s been getting, and ask him to knock off his drug use.” Harry pauses to let this sink in. “He didn’t tell me himself, Glenne texted me yesterday to let me know.”

The cracker feels like a rock in Louis’ stomach. “Oh,” he says numbly. “Huh.”

“I wanted to tell you in person, not over text. I thought you might get a bit, ah, _dicky_ if I told you over text.”

A laugh escapes Louis. “Yeah, wouldn’t want that.”

“And I didn’t want to get your hopes up just for nothing to come of it, either, so I was sort of hoping not to have to tell you anything before I knew more.”

“Right.”

“I’m sorry, Louis.”

Louis nods. Liam continues stroking his back, and Louis lays a hand over his thigh. Liam has been wonderful, this year. He’s the scaffolding on which Louis has hung himself.

“I love you,” Louis says to him, very quietly.

Liam leans in to whisper in his ear, tickling him with his whiskers. “I love you too, angel.”

Louis gives his leg a squeeze.

Harry inhales again. “I _am_ sorry, I really am. You know I never wanted any of this to happen.”

“I did warn you, way back when,” Louis says.

“I know. I remember.”

Louis clears his throat. “Might as well get to our band business, then, I guess,” he says.

“Yeah, that would be spiffing,” Niall says, and they all chuckle.

They’re interrupted by Zayn’s arrival. He comes in all cheerful with a seltzer in his hand, and starts picking off the cheese board. Louis gets angry just looking at him. What the fuck are you so happy about, he can’t help thinking, when our son is somewhere in Europe, in terrible pain, out of his mind on drugs, neglecting his husband and child? How can you smile like a fucking dickhead?

Louis knows he’s not really angry at Zayn, he’s angry at the bad parts of Zayn in Amir — the scarpering gene, the addict gene, the bipolar gene, the “blow up my life” gene, whatever it is. But it doesn’t make him any less distressed. He really never should have agreed to this meeting, he isn’t in a fit state for it.

“Did you visit with April?” Louis says.

Zayn nods. “Yeah. We’re all hangin’ out, me and my girls.”

“So, are you joining us for this next album, or no?” Liam says conversationally.

Zayn looks up from the cracker he’s spreading brie on. “Depends,” he says. “What’s my cut of merch?”

“One-fifth,” Louis says impatiently. “As you’d be one-fifth of the band.”

“Nah, that wouldn’t work,” Zayn says. “I want a third.”

Niall splutters. “A _third_?”

Harry shakes his head. “Ignore him,” he says. “He’s just saying that to get rid of us, he’s got no intention of joining back up.”

“I would, if I got a third,” Zayn counters.

“You only got thirty percent last time ‘cos we knew you coming back would make us crazy money,” Louis says. “Novelty’s over now, and we’re all getting old. Money ain’t there. A fifth or nothing.”

“If I don’t get a third, I’m not doing it,” Zayn says, and eats his cracker.

“Fine,” Harry says, his voice clipped. “Then you can go fuck yourself. All in favor of Zayn fucking himself?”

They all raise their hands, with varying levels of enthusiasm about it.

“Motion carried,” Harry says, turning to his husband. “Fuck off.”

“Wow,” Zayn says, seeming unperturbed and grabbing a few more crackers. “Testy testy.” He takes his leave of them, letting the door fall shut behind him.

“Everything alright there?” Liam says to Harry.

Harry sighs. “Yes, everything’s fine, he’s just been getting on my nerves.”

Louis laughs.

“He’s in denial a bit, I think,” Harry adds, pushing his watch up his wrist. “If I even mention Amir, he gets angry and tells me to quit bringing it up. The only person he’ll talk to about it is Louis, and I hear you two on the phone, I know he just goes silent for most of the conversation.”

Louis nods. It’s true.

“Well,” Niall says bracingly. “Productive first ten minutes, yeah?”

“In what sense?” Harry says to him.

“We’ve cleared the air between youse, and decided Zayn is sitting this cycle out…” Niall gestures. “I think we’re well ahead of schedule. I don’t think anyone could, for instance, hold it against me if I were t’ go get another beer to celebrate how much progress we’ve made.”

They all laugh.

“Bring me one too,” Louis tells him, and Niall winks at him as he gets up.

*

They get loads done over the next few hours before breaking for lunch. While the others argue over what restaurant to get takeaway from, Louis whispers in Liam’s ear to just order him some sort of carb covered in cheese from wherever they decide on, then slips away.

He finds Zayn hanging out with April on the patio by the pool. Marlena and Toni are swimming, while Mia suns herself in a floating lounge chair and reads what appears to be a crime novel about a grisly murder. The cover art is a bloody knife, and the title is rendered in tall, serifed letters.

Louis heads over and takes a seat at the table across from Zayn. He’s bouncing April on his leg, talking to her animatedly and making her laugh. Zayn has always been a very doting, sweet grandfather to her, even though he initially was adamantly opposed to her existence.

“Hi,” Louis says.

“Hi,” Zayn says back.

“Lu-ee,” April says, pointing at him. Louis smiles at her in confirmation.

“And who am I?” Zayn prods, bouncing her. “April. Who am I?” April turns to him, and he points to himself. “Who’s this?”

“Boppa,” she says with confidence.

“Alright, we’ll work on that,” Zayn says indulgently.

“You can be Boppa,” Louis says. “What do you even want her to call you, d’you know?”

Zayn shrugs. “Whatever, really.” He strokes her hair. “She’s gotten chatty since I saw her last.”

“Yeah, the speech therapist’s really helpin’.”

Zayn nods, studying her face. “Really favors Amir, don’t she?”

Louis exhales. “Yeah. I was just thinking the other day, she has your eyes. Both your eyes, rather.”

“She does,” Zayn agrees. “How are you, mate? You coping?”

“I’m coping,” Louis says, then adds, accusatorily: “You seem fine.”

Zayn shrugs.

“You haven’t heard from him, I’m assuming?”

“I would’ve told you if I had,” Zayn says, narrowing his eyes. “Look, Lou, just leave it, alright? You keep needling him, he’ll keep pulling back. You know this.”

“I can’t leave it,” Louis says. “What if he overdoses? What then?”

“He’s not gonna overdose.”

“Says who? Why are you so sure everything’s gonna be alright? He could very well overdose.”

“He’s smarter than that,” Zayn says.

“‘Cos a smart person’s never overdosed?”

“He’s not doin’ fuckin’, y’know — heroin, or fentanyl, Louis!”

“Who’s to say he won’t get there?” Louis says. “He’s got access to every drug in existence, and he’s got no one telling him no, and he’s trying desperately to numb himself. He could take somethin’ that's laced without even realizing. And like no one’s ever killed themselves with cocaine, or molly? He almost died off molly in secondary, or do you not remember?”

Zayn’s face hardens, like he’s shutting this out. “You need to stop torturing yourself and everyone around you,” he says. “It’s not helping anything.”

“You know what?” Louis spits at him. “I’ve never been so glad I left you as I am right now. ‘Cos if we were still together, going through this, and you were acting like this about it, it’d break my heart.”

Zayn snorts in contempt, but this clearly stings him. They hear Mia clear her throat, then the sound of splashing water as she paddles her lounge chair over to the edge of the infinity pool and climbs out of it, padding over to them and leaving wet footprints on the patio.

“Hey, guys?” she says quietly, squatting next to their table and pushing her sunglasses up onto her head. “As fun as it is for me to have to overhear this conversation, maybe you could keep it down, so Dad’s teenage daughters don’t?”

Louis and Zayn both jerk their gazes up at Marlena and Toni, who thankfully are at the far end of the pool and don’t seem to be paying attention.

“Sorry,” Zayn says to her. He resumes bouncing April, who has started looking around, searching all their faces for an answer as to why the mood has abruptly soured.

Mia gets to her feet and leans over to kiss April on the head. “Don’t worry about it. Just watch your volume.”

“How are you?” Zayn says to her.

Mia goes still like she wasn’t expecting the question. She shrugs, then walks away, dropping back onto her lounge and picking her book back up, then kicking herself away from the side of the pool.

“That good?” Zayn shouts after her.

Mia gives him a thumbs up without looking up.

“She split up with her girlfriend,” Louis says to Zayn, quietly, so Mia doesn’t hear. “In a way that required her changin’ the locks on her apartment, so I’m assuming it wasn’t exactly friendly.”

“Jesus Christ,” Zayn says, then sighs.

“Yeah. D’you ever feel like maybe it was a bad idea for you and me to reproduce?”

Zayn looks stunned for a moment, then chokes out a laugh. Louis starts laughing, too.

“Maybe,” Zayn admits.

“‘Least we got a cute grandbaby out of it,” Louis says.

“Yeah,” Zayn says, smiling at April. “She shouldn’t be wiv you and Liam, though... Should be wiv her parents.”

“She’s with Evan.”

“I’m not talking about him,” Zayn says. “I meant our son.”

“I know.”

“I really don’t get where we went wrong, there,” Zayn mutters.

“I don’t think we ‘went wrong’ anywhere,” Louis says icily. “I think life is hard, and things happen.”

“It’s a saying though, innit? Raise your kids and you can spoil your grandkids, spoil your kids and you have to raise your grandkids?”

“I didn’t spoil Amir.”

“You were always soft on him.”

“Zayn, drop it,” Louis snaps. “Or I’ll take the baby and go.”

Zayn makes a sad face at April. “He don’t mean that,” he says to her, squeezing one of her round cheeks between two of his fingers and making her laugh. “He knows you need Boppa time.”

Louis exhales through his nose and looks out over the pool, hugging his arms to himself.

BEVERLY HILLS, JULY 8, 2042

On Tuesday morning, Louis finally gets an answer as to why Mia was so eager to come with them — he comes downstairs and finds her on the phone with Aya in the kitchen.

“Sure,” Mia says, eyeing her father as he moves behind her to start the coffee maker. “Yeah, noon is perfect.” She pauses. “Uh, yeah, just text me. Okay. Sounds good. See you then.”

Louis has already recognized Aya’s voice from the faint, tinny echo coming from Mia’s earpiece, but he plays dumb as he moves around the kitchen.

Harry and Zayn had asked them to spend the night yesterday so they could visit with April, but the longer Louis stayed in their house, the worse his chest pain and nausea got. He finally told them they could just keep her overnight while the three adults took off for their _pied-à-terre_ in Beverly Hills.

Mia shakes her watch to hang up and clears her throat. “Do you guys need me to run out to the corner store for stuff for the coffee, maybe some food? Or I could do a Starbucks run. There’s literally never anything to eat in this house.”

“What’s happening at noon?” Louis says, leaning against the counter.

Mia laughs. “Alright, so, Aya’s in town.”

“I _knew_ something was up.”

“We’re just meeting for a friendly lunch,” Mia says. “We haven’t seen each other in years, she wants to catch up.”

“Mmm.”

“What?” Mia says, sounding flustered.

“It’s just you’re smiling,” Louis says, smiling back at her. “I haven’t seen you smile in ages.”

“I smile,” Mia mutters. “What are you guys doing today? More band stuff?”

Louis’ stomach lurches as he remembers that Jeff is supposed to have his confrontation with Amir today. “In the evening, aye, but me and Liam and Niall were gonna go hang on the beach before that.”

“Just the three of you?”

“Just the three of us, yeah.”

Mia hesitates. “I know you’re mad at Harry, but he really does feel horrible.”

“I don’t really care how he feels, Mims.”

“I know that’s not true.”

Louis shakes his head and looks away, out the kitchen window, zoning out as he stares at the riot of green it overlooks. He does like this neighborhood, and this little house, tucked away in the hills.

“He has no idea how I feel,” he says thinly.

“I know,” Mia says. “But _I_ do.”

He looks at her, hooded blue eyes meeting hooded blue eyes. Her face is set, as it often is, but in pain instead of determination. It’s a twisted facsimile of the expression she adopts during footie games, to intimidate the girls she’s facing off against.

“How was therapy?” she says.

“Fine,” Louis says.

“Did it help?”

“No.”

“Well, did you like the guy, at least?”

“I did.”

“That’s good. Give it time.”

He nods.

Mia checks her watch. “It’s only ten, so I’m gonna run out and get some stuff before I go meet Aya. You sure you don’t want food?”

“I’m really not hungry,” Louis says.

“Dad, you have to eat, seriously. You look terrible, no offense. You’re all peaky and weak-looking.”

Louis sighs. “Fine, pick up some… I dunno. You know what I like. You sure you’ve got time?”

“Yes.” Mia comes over to him and reaches behind him to turn off the coffee maker. “Don’t bother making coffee, I’ll just get us all Starbs. Is Liam still in bed?”

“Yeah, don’t wake him. He needs his sleep.”

“Alright. That’s fine, I know what he likes too.”

Louis reaches out for her and gives her a one-armed hug. “Thanks, love. I appreciate it.”

“I know.” Mia returns the hug.

*

It’s a beautiful day for a walk along a stretch of private beach: relatively cool for Los Angeles in July, no humidity, mostly cloudy. The sky curls over the ocean, reflecting whites and grays down onto it, blurring the horizon. On their right, craggy hilltops rise into the fog, speckled by extravagant homes.

They walk barefoot through the wet, hard-packed sand, carrying their shoes in their hands. Niall and Liam walk up ahead, talking about nothing and everything. Louis trails behind, filling his lungs with fresh air. Despite fleeing Zayn and Harry’s house, his chest pain isn’t actually much better.

He considers for the first time that he ought to go to the doctor about this. He’s certain it’s psychosomatic, especially since he’s at an age now where his doctor regularly prods at him, and has said multiple times that there’s nothing wrong with his heart. He does say scary things to Louis about COPD, though, and lung cancer, and chronic bronchitis, even though Louis quit smoking years ago. Once a year or so he gets a low-dose CT scan to make sure his lungs haven’t turned on him, but he hasn’t had this year’s yet.

“Hey,” Louis calls after a while, feeling left out and lonely. Niall and Liam both stop immediately and turn to him. “Hi. Wait up.”

They wait patiently as he joins them, and Liam wraps an arm around Louis’ shoulders, hanging onto him tightly. Louis turns his face and presses it into Liam’s chest, sagging into him as they walk. Liam and Niall resume their conversation as if it was never interrupted; they’re talking about seabirds.

“I love you boys,” Louis says, sounding maudlin even to himself.

Niall sidles over and wraps an arm around his other shoulder. “We love you too, Tommo.”

“I love you, Niall,” Liam adds.

“Love you, Payno. Glad we’ve cleared this up.”

Louis starts laughing.

*

Mia is so numb lately that she doesn’t even get nervous about seeing Aya until she’s actually sitting down and waiting for her. She took a patio seat, because the inside of the coffee shop was crowded and claustrophobic, and it’s at the top of the hill overlooking Rodeo Drive, so she has a panoramic view of all the palm trees and storefronts and rich people shopping.

Despite this, Aya manages to sneak up on her and scare the shit out of her. Mia is sitting there all clammy, her iced coffee roiling in her gut, when a hand lands on her shoulder and makes her jump.

“Sorry,” Aya’s musical, lilting voice says. She crosses into Mia’s view and sits down across from her, smiling. “Hi.”

She looks beautiful — she’s in a white linen sundress, with her dark hair hanging in loose waves over her shoulders.

“Not your fault,” Mia says. “I’m jumpy. Hi.”

She wonders, too late, if sitting outside means that paps are going to photograph this lunch. They’ve been hot on her trail ever since Amir started spiraling out. When she’s hidden away in Sacramento, she manages to forget about them, but every time she’s in LA, they’re like flies on hot shit.

“How are you?” Aya says, with too much sympathy in her voice.

Mia ducks her gaze. “I’m fine.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. How are you? Why are you in town?”

“So, um, I’ve been stationed in Germany for the last year,” Aya says. “And I got an assignment to come to the German consulate in Los Angeles, to address a situation here, so I thought I would, y’know, visit with college friends. And you, if you were in town.”

Mia nods and resists the urge to slide her sunglasses down over her eyes. “How’d you know I would be?”

“I didn’t, but I thought there was a chance you might,” Aya says, smiling her brilliant, lovely smile. “I figured your dad and sisters still live in the area.”

“They do,” Mia says, shrugging.

“I wasn’t arrogant enough to presume you would come all the way down here just to see me.”

And yet, she kind of did do that. “I didn’t assume you were.”

“So were you?” Aya says, taking a sip of the matcha latte in her hand. She must have ordered it inside before coming back out to meet Mia, and yet she was still perfectly on time. Very Aya of her. “Visiting your dad, I mean?”

“Yeah,” Mia says. “They had a band meeting, so Liam and Louis came down, and I came along to babysit my niece.”

Aya nods. “How old is she?”

“A year and a half.”

“Right. And how’s, ah…” Aya trails off.

“Amir?” Mia supplies.

“Yes.”

“It’s okay to ask about him,” Mia says, squinting as the sun passes from behind a cloud and begins to beat down more harshly. “You guys knew each other. We went on trips together.”

Aya looks embarrassed. “I know.”

The three of them had had so much fun on their trip to Jordan, staying in a luxury resort on the coast, clubbing all night and doing spa treatments or floating in the Dead Sea all day. Aya and Amir even jokingly teamed up against Mia, making her be the one to always go fetch fresh ice or let the room service guy in.

“He’s doing badly,” Mia says. “As I’m sure you’ve read. And as usual, my family’s personal, private business is all over the Internet, and people I barely know feel entitled to ask me about it.”

“I’m not someone you barely know,” Aya says, looking hurt.

“I know. That’s not what I meant, sorry. I just meant I’m a little touchy.”

“You always were,” Aya says, but there’s nothing cruel about the way she says it. In fact, she’s smiling fondly.

Mia laughs.

Aya points to her empty cup. “You want another coffee?”

“Nah, this is already my third one today, I’d shoot into space.”

“Some food, then?” Aya says, looking her up and down.

“I’m fine,” Mia says shortly.

“No offense, Yasmeen, but you look like you’ve been missing some meals.”

“I’ve aged since you saw me last, and I have high cheekbones. This is just what my face looks like now.” (A lie. She’s lost ten pounds since February, and it was almost all bulky leg muscle that she couldn’t afford to lose. She and Louis have been wasting away in tandem.)

“Okay,” Aya says.

“Do you believe me?”

Aya breaks eye contact with her, lacing her hands together. A smile plays on her lips without reaching her eyes. “I know you pretty well.”

“And?”

“And I think you’re probably going to keep just blowing me off if I keep expressing concern about you.”

The bright Los Angeles sun suddenly feels like a spotlight bearing down on Mia, and she becomes overly aware of all the people at adjoining tables on the patio. Their presence makes a prickle creep up her neck. “Are you just concerned about me? Is that why you asked me to lunch?”

“No,” Aya says. “I actually asked you to lunch because I miss you a lot, and breaking up with you is something I massively regret, and I wanted to see you.”

The prickle spreads to Mia’s face. “Oh,” she says, her heart speeding up. Hope swells in her chest, but cynicism immediately starts jabbing holes in it.

“I don’t need a response to that,” Aya quickly adds. “I just wanted to be transparent.”

“But nothing has changed,” Mia says, shaking her head. She watches a palm tree sway in the breeze for a moment before continuing. “You’re still abroad. You’re in Germany, your life is there. My life is here. I can’t leave my dad right now, or my niece or my brother-in-law. I can’t leave my team.”

“I’m not asking you to,” Aya says. “I just want you in my life again. Even if we’re just friends who talk from time to time.”

“I can’t be your friend,” Mia snaps, looking her in the face. It makes her angry, how beautiful Aya is — it feels like a manipulation. “I can’t. I’ve never loved anyone like I loved you. I can’t just talk to you like it’s normal. It’s all or nothing.”

Aya inhales. “Mia, I can’t give up my career. I’m an FSO, I work on things like climate change accords. I’m trying to keep the world from falling to pieces.”

“Yeah? How’s that going?”

“Not very well, actually!”

They both start laughing.

“I know,” Mia says. “My brother-in-law — you remember Evan — he’s a forester, and that’s all he talks about. The Big One, the fires, the new Dust Bowl, the fish and tree and bird die-offs…”

“Sounds lighthearted,” Aya says.

“Yeah, he’s been a fucking bummer since my brother left him, honestly.”

Aya folds her arms across her chest and leans forward onto the table— a provocative move, in a sundress, though Mia is ignoring her breasts. “So did he really leave him? I’ve heard a lot of rumors about what’s going on with him, and I don’t really want to believe any of them.”

“Don’t, then,” Mia says coolly.

“I am curious, though,” Aya says. “I hate to admit it, but I am.”

“He and Evan are separated, I guess. They never really had a formal discussion about it. Amir wanted to go on tour, even though he was really not doing well, and we all begged him not to, and he told us to fuck ourselves and left anyway and has refused to talk to us since.”

Aya’s brow raises. “Wow. That’s, uh…”

“Immature and insane? Yeah.”

“I feel like I’d need more information to make that call,” Aya says, diplomatically. Well, she is a diplomat.

“There’s a lot more information,” Mia says, “but I’m not in the habit of giving it away to people I haven’t seen or talked to in four years.”

“Well, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” Aya says. “About maybe changing that situation between us.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. Maybe we can compromise. I have to finish out the year on my Germany assignment, but after that, I have a choice of where I go next. Maybe I could factor you into that decision.”

Mia puts her hand up, her body thrumming with anger, suddenly. “Hold up. The reason you dumped me was because I wasn’t good enough for your fancy diplomat lifestyle.”

“No, that isn’t true,” Aya insists. “It was because I knew you’d hate that life, and I’d be working so many hours we wouldn’t have time to see each other, and you’d start to resent me.”

“So what’s changed? Is that not still the case?”

“What’s changed is I was young then, and naive! I didn’t understand how rare it is to find what we had! I thought I’d find it again, but I haven’t been able to get anywhere close! Have you? I hope not, but it doesn’t seem like it.”

Mia snorts. “So you finally realize what you threw away, and you come crawling back to me?”

Aya puts her face in her hands, looking stricken. “Please don’t do this,” she begs. “This is really hard for me. I’m being so vulnerable right now. Please don’t use it against me, and throw it in my face.”

Mia has an out of body experience, for a second. She floats above herself momentarily and sees what everyone else must see: a spoiled rich girl, angry, mean, pretty but not striking, talented but not star material, lashing out from a place of inadequacy, lashing out at everyone who abandons her, sinking her venomous fangs into their soft spots.

“I didn’t mean to do that,” she mutters. “You really hurt me, though, Aya.”

Aya peeks through her fingers. “I know. Look, I’m in town for a while — through the end of July, if I drag this project out. Can we spend some time together? Can I try to make it up to you?”

In lieu of answering, Mia dumps the rest of her drink in her mouth — a mouthful of melted ice with about a teaspoon of coffee diluted into it. “Okay,” she says. “I guess.”

It’s like, what does she have to lose? Everyone’s already stomped on her heart, Aya included. What more damage could she possibly do? Mia has no expectations. She’s really just agreeing because she’s hoping this will make her feel something for the first time in months.

Aya is beaming, though. She has no idea what she’s getting herself into. “I’m glad to hear that,” she says. “I was honestly sort of worried I’d missed my chance with you… that by coming to you right now, I’d make you hate me for even asking.”

“Why would I?”

“Well,” Aya says delicately. “I don’t know. Amir is more than just your brother, right? He’s your best friend.”

Mia stares at the pitcher of ice water on the table as her face and throat grow hot. “Yeah.”

“I just worried it was horrible timing.”

She clears her throat. “I have to try and live my life, no matter what’s going on with him,” she says.

“That’s an admirable way of looking at it.”

“Cut the shit. Stop blowing smoke up my ass.”

Aya starts laughing. “I can’t even be nice to you, now?”

“No,” Mia says, smiling. “I don’t trust you. Sorry.”

“I’ll win your trust back. You’ll see.”

“Yeah, we’ll see.”

LISBON, PORTUGAL, JULY 8, 2042

Their Lisbon date is a sold-out show at the Coliseu dos Recreios, so there’s more than 4,000 people in the audience. Amir spends the plane ride into Portugal that morning in paroxysms of anxiety and stage fright — he keeps getting up to go into the plane bathroom and pulling a baggie of Xanax out of his jeans pocket, his hands shaking as he fishes one out and drops it into his mouth so he can swallow it with a swig of water from the sink.

Five pills later, he’s numb enough to go on. A little too numb, actually, so he has to sneak off and snort some coke with his saxophonist, Frankie, before he and Jya get their hair done.

Jya glances sideways at him when he returns, her face lit by the bulbs on the vanity mirror she’s sitting in front of. “You okay?” she says.

“Yeah,” Amir says, staring straight ahead at his own mirror so she doesn’t notice how large his pupils are. “I’m good.”

His hair has gotten kind of long, which he likes. When his stage fright gets too bad, he can let it fall in his eyes, shielding the audience from view.

*

They love him, as usual. He and Jya share a drummer, a very talented woman named Holly who almost never talks but tears up the drums three hours a night, every night, and Frankie is so lubricated by the coke that he’s practically tongue-fucking his sax on stage.

Amir hides behind the music, letting it drag him under. He uses his voice like the instrument it is and focuses on the technique of singing, letting the drugs and lights blur his vision until the audience becomes one big smear.

Somehow he can still connect with them, even despite this. He doesn’t really have to _try_ to please the audience, he just goes up there and does what he does, and somehow almost every person in the place manages to feel like he’s singing directly to them. It’s an innate thing. He feels his energy peeling off of him like cotton candy, reaching its tendrils out to the audience, wrapping them up.

It’s why he has to do coke before he goes on and why he’s so tired after. Amir doesn’t understand Jya, who can do a set five times as long as his and still have the energy to party after. Performing takes everything from him.

But he is fucking good at it. He sees opening for her as foreplay with the audience, lathering them up, teasing their brains open wide so Jya can come in after him and pour her music like honey directly into their waiting ears. They’re an excellent team. His lyrics are inscrutable, and his songs are little technical masterpieces — Amir speaks music as a second language, he knows exactly how to build tension and release it at the optimal moment. He knows exactly how to make people’s brainstems tingly, get them curious, tickle them into the mood. And Jya is like the warrior poet who comes in after him and slams her way through the crowd with her raspy, powerhouse voice and her soul-baring lyrics, hitting them in their primate brains after Amir hits them in their lizard brains.

It’s too bad Jya is clearly beginning to catch onto the fact that Amir is a rapidly deteriorating cokehead who is barely holding it together. It’s also too bad that she’s too nice of a person to value Amir’s ability to perform over his well-being.

Amir would so much rather be a commodity, these days — a machine, a tool of Atlantic Records, a robot boy they break out for other people’s entertainment. Being a person with needs and weaknesses has been nothing but acutely painful, these past few years.

*

After the show, Jason finds him backstage where he’s smoking a joint, his hair plastered to his forehead by sweat. “Good set,” he says, holding his hand out.

Amir passes him the joint. He’s coming down off the coke with a headache grinding in his temples like factory machinery, but the weed is helping. “Thanks. Wanna get out of here?”

Jason smokes the joint while seeming to consider this. Behind them in the hall, roadies pass by, carrying equipment. Jya’s assistant appears, and then Jya herself, walking a few steps behind her.

Amir, leaning against the wall, waves. Jya makes eye contact with him and smiles tightly.

“Good set,” he says to her.

“You too,” Jya says, but she keeps moving without saying anything else.

Usually she’d stop to talk to him for a little bit. Amir watches her go, then disregards the thought. Whatever. She can be pissed at him. Almost everyone he likes and respects is pissed at him, or disappointed in him, or baffled by him. Welcome to the fucking party, Jya.

“We can get out of here,” Jason says. “Yeah, I’m tired. No discotheque for me tonight, I think.”

Jason looks bad — bloated from coke and older than twenty-five, in some kind of grand, existential way. It’s the glassy and faraway look in his eyes. It’s like he’s seen too much and doesn’t want to see any more.

“We can go out tomorrow night, if you want,” Amir says, motioning to his bodyguard so that he starts leading them down the hallway. “Our next flight isn’t ‘til Thursday.”

“Sure.”

It’s been raining, and colorful Lisbon is laid out below them, all blue and streaky in the wet evening. Amir can’t light a cigarette in this weather, so he starts vaping while their bodyguard waves their car over from where it’s parked across the street. It’s a stretched Bentley, and the driver has to make a very awkward U-turn, taking up the entire street and interrupting traffic as he maneuvers a car with the turning radius of a yacht. The three of them stand there watching this in numb amusement.

When the car finally pulls alongside the curb, Amir leads Jason to the back door, already mentally checked out. He wants to go back to his hotel, sleep until 1 p.m. tomorrow, and hopefully not dream at all.

However, when he slides across the Bentley’s bench seat, Jason sliding in after him, he comes face to face with Jeff Azoff in the seat across from him.

“Hi,” Jeff says. He’s dressed like he’s twenty years younger than he is, which makes Amir furious for no particular reason.

“Hi,” Jason says, glancing nervously at Amir.

“What do you want?” Amir demands of Jeff.

“I want to talk to you.”

Under them, the car starts moving. Lisbon begins to streak by out the window.

“Then talk,” Amir says, shrugging.

Jeff sighs. “Well, congratulations. People love you as a musician and performer, audiences love you, they want more.”

“I know. And?”

“And? What do you mean, and?” Jeff demands, his polite mask immediately dropping in response to Amir’s sullen insolence. “The _and_ is that you’re fucking it all up! The _and_ is that you think you’re getting away with being doped out of your skull for every single date of this tour, when the reality is that there isn’t a single person around you who isn’t either concerned about you or pissed off at you because you insulted them while you were tweaking!”

“I’m not doing that many drugs,” Amir says dismissively. “I’m a musician. Are you new, Jeff? Why don’t you ask my stepfather how much coke he was snorting when he was my age? Better yet, ask either of my parents. Did they send you here to do their dirty work? Fucking hypocrites.”

“No, they did not,” Jeff says. “I came because you’re endangering this tour with your behavior, you selfish little prick.”

Amir snorts. This would ordinarily sting him, but he’s numb.

“Do you realize how many jobs this endeavor represents, especially for a mid-size artist like Jya?” Jeff continues. “Big enough to take out dozens of people’s jobs if it fails, but not big enough to guarantee asses in seats if the PR around it unravels halfway through? Are you just not thinking about that?”

“What am I going to do to wreck the tour,” Amir sneers at him. “ _Die_? Is that what everyone’s so worried about? Guess what, if I die, I won’t give a fuck what happens to any of you! I’ll be free! Not really a great deterrent!”

“There are other ways to fuck up a tour,” Jeff says, his face stony. “You’re flaming out. We all see it. You’re refusing to give me any promo besides photoshoots, and when you _have_ done interviews, you’ve been recalcitrant, obviously high, and practically incoherent. Your publicity is horrendous —“

“I don’t give a shit about that.”

“We _are_ doing a lot of drugs,” Jason says suddenly, his eyes darting in Amir’s direction. “I — like, to a point where I, uh, I’m worried about you.”

Amir scoffs at him, disgusted by him even as his own face grows hot with shame. “Thanks, Jason, nice way to repay me letting you join me on tour and fuck all my leftovers.”

“That’s exactly why I’m telling you this, dude! I have no ulterior motive!” Jason cries. “But my conscience is killing me, a little bit! Evan is my friend, too, okay —”

At the sound of Evan’s name, Amir’s cock twitches at the same time as his heart drops in his chest.

“— we’ve all been friends for almost twenty years, I can’t just watch you do this to yourself forever —“

Jeff is holding something up in front of Amir’s face, now. His vision swims as he tries to focus on it. It’s a tablet with a TMZ story pulled up, with a massive pap photo of Amir from a few weeks ago, stumbling out of a club, high, in a pack of people he barely knew. Words like _absent_ and _drug use_ and _partying_ jump out at him, but that’s all Amir catches before he looks away.

“We need this fixed,” Jeff says. “I need you doing damage control, doing interviews where you’re trying to reverse this narrative. Otherwise your career is in the toilet before it even begins. Nobody looks kindly on omegas who abandon their deaf babies and their childhood sweethearts to go snort coke with strangers.”

“TMZ’s been libeling me since I was a fetus,” Amir snaps. His vision is hazy, and he’s exhausted, and his headache is pounding like an ice pick at his temples, but he’s not going down without a fight. “I don’t give a fuck what they say, and I’m not walking into an interview and telling them all my private personal shit just so they can try to force people to feel sorry for me instead of hating me over shit they know _nothing_ about! I grew up in this, you can’t manipulate me! I’m not some fucking starry-eyed hick who’s dying to be famous, I was _born_ famous! I just want to make fucking music, and you people won’t get out of my way!”

“Because you’re killing yourself,” Jeff says, his teeth bared. “You’re not right in the head. I shouldn’t have put you on this tour, I realize that now. I fucked up. I misjudged how much you could handle. But I’m pulling the plug, now. Either you sober up by _tomorrow_ or I want you off the tour.”

Amir stares at him, his vision swimming. “Get out of my car.”

“ _Your_ car? Your label paid for this car. Your label paid for your hotel. If I call Atlantic now, I could have your ass wandering the streets in an hour. Never forget who has the power here, Amir — it’s not you.”

As if he doesn’t know that? As if his fundamental lack of power over everything in his life isn’t the exact thing he’s running away from? Amir stares with hatred at Jeff’s middle-aged, puffy, Botoxed face. Jeff cannot, and will not, understand. He dangled the apple in Eden and now he’s trying to cast Amir out for eating it.

“Fine,” Amir says, giving nothing away. “Make me homeless, I don’t give a fuck. I have friends in every city in Europe, I have money. Do whatever you want.”

“I’m giving you one last chance to turn this around,” Jeff says. They’ve reached the hotel; the car starts coasting alongside the curb before rolling to a gentle stop. “No one’s punishing you. This is out of concern, Amir. You’ve blown through every chance we’ve given you, and we don’t know what else to do. Really think about that, and what it means.”

“Get out of my _car!_ ” Amir screams at him. He picks one of the chilled water bottles sitting in a cup holder next to his legs and whips it at Jeff, hitting him in the arm. “What the fuck do you people _want_ from me! Jesus Christ!”

Jeff barely reacts to this, like it’s not the first time a coked-up musician has started throwing shit at him. “Go home,” he says. “Go to rehab, whatever you need to do. You want to have a long, good career? I’m telling you right now, if you keep this up, it’s never gonna happen.”

Amir whips another water bottle at him. This one misses.

“Alright,” Jeff says unemotionally. “You’ve been warned, so my job here is done. I hope to hear that you’ve turned things around, although I’m not counting on it.” He jerks his head in the direction of the sidewalk. “Go get some sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

“No, we won’t,” Amir snarls at him. He musters all of the coordination in his body to climb over Jason and let himself out of the car, then drop onto the sidewalk, without staggering in a way that would betray how much havoc chronic cocaine abuse has wreaked on his motor skills.

Amir’s bodyguard had taken his own car, and pulls up behind them as Amir gets out. He hands his keys to a waiting valet, then goes to fetch Amir’s luggage from the Bentley’s trunk. Jason lurches into Amir’s sightline, and Amir turns to him, shoving him in the chest, making him stagger back.

“What the fuck was that?” Amir demands, with no concern for the fact that they’re in public.

Jason puts his hands up. “Dude, I’m sorry, but it’s how I feel.”

“You ungrateful prick!”

“I’m _ungrateful_? Because I’m _worried_ about you?”

“You’re fucking using me! ‘Oh, Amir, I’d love to come on tour with you, I’d love to go all around Europe and fuck the hottest girls I’ve ever seen and party all the time! Oh, shit, wait, I’m feeling a little pressure from some fucking record label that has literally nothing to do with me, I better fold and sell you out now that I’m so gorked I have erectile dysfunction all the time!’”

“Please,” Jason hisses, his eyes bugging, “can you not scream that on the street?”

People are definitely staring at them, and Amir’s bodyguard is trying to usher him inside, but Amir doesn’t care.

“I’ll do whatever I want,” Amir spits at him. “You don’t like it? Go! Get the fuck out!”

“I can’t believe you think I was using you. Like I can’t get pussy and drugs on my own? I worked on Wall Street! My dad’s a billionaire!”

“No one gives a fuck about your billionaire dad, bitch! It’s not like _you’re_ a billionaire!”

“I don’t even know who I am anymore!” Jason screams in his face. “You, like, kidnapped me and sucked me into this fucking swamp of mental illness you’re living in! This is what you do to people, you toxic fuck! I’m telling you this as your oldest friend, and if _I’m_ saying it, you know something’s really, really wrong!”

This pings some deep, instinctive part of Amir, like a pinball bouncing off his basal ganglia. He’s not wrong, his lizard brain tells him. Jason being horrified by him? Afraid of him? That’s very bad. The entire reason he dragged Jason along on this tour in the first place is because Jason is Down For Anything, Always. Jason is a soldier of hedonism and debauchery, and Amir broke him. Now he’s standing here all fucked up and desperate and — sad? Is that sadness in his eyes?

“Don’t blame me ‘cos you can’t handle this life,” Amir sneers at him. “I always expected you to burn out, anyway.”

“What the fuck is your problem, dude? Why are you like this? You have everything, princess!” Jason screams at him. “You’re good-looking, you’re talented, you’re smart, everyone fucking loves you! Why do you make everything so hard? God, you’re just exhausting!”

“Sounds like jealousy to me, man.”

Jason throws up his hands. “Oh, please…”

“You’ve always been jealous of me. Always.”

“It isn’t jealousy for me to tell you you’re acting like a crazy fucking junkie! If I were really jealous, I’d just stand back and let you ruin your life, wouldn’t I?”

Amir stares at him, uncomprehending. His life is already ruined, in his eyes. He feels like he died that day he walked into traffic, and now he’s just wandering around haunting everyone, a vengeful ghost that can’t get peace. Or maybe like this is purgatory. What did Jason call it? His swamp of mental illness? No, it’s purgatory.

He has a decision to make, now. If he sends Jason away, he’ll be alone, really alone, without allies. But the thing is, Jason is no longer an ally. He betrayed Amir’s confidence and threw him under the bus in front of Jeff, an enemy combatant. So he’s already alone.

Realizing this feels bracing, like ocean spray on his face. He’s alone in the world now: the one thing he never wanted to be.

Amir really would believe that, too, if there weren’t an ever-present pain in his chest, a constant tugging on the string around his heart that connects him to his daughter. She’s out there somewhere, and she’s supposed to belong to him, and she loves him. She cries and begs for him when he FaceTimes with her, wanting him to come home. It makes him sick with fury at his family for driving him away from her. They don’t understand, they never will.

He decides to do Jason a kindness. Jason had no idea what he was signing up for. He tried to follow Amir into hell, but Amir has plumbed the depths of hell, and Jason has only scratched the surface.

“Go back to the states,” Amir says, wiping his nose, which is running. He isn’t even angry. His rage has subsided. “It’s fine. It’s whatever. Just get your own room tonight and leave tomorrow.”

“Amir,” Jason says, in a pleading voice. “Come on. Please. Let’s just go upstairs and talk.”

“I don’t want to talk.” He wants to smoke a cigarette on his balcony and then go take a very hot bath, and he wants more Xanax. He needs to come back down. “Phil?”

His bodyguard, who had shepherded them underneath the awning of a movie theater beside the hotel while they were arguing, nods to him.

“Can we get Jason a room for tonight? And I’m going to bed.”

“Got it,” Phil says. “I’ll tell them to take his luggage out of your room.”

“Amir,” Jason yells after him as he heads for the lobby, but Amir isn’t listening. Someone else yells after him too, a voice he doesn’t recognize coming from further down the sidewalk, with the inflection of either a reporter or an overconfident fan: “Amir!”

He doesn’t stop moving or look back.

*

Amir crashes as soon as his hotel door shuts behind him. It’s like passing through a portal to Shit Town. His leg muscles start to ache from being on stage, his headache kicks up to migraine levels of bad, and he becomes aware again of the compression neuropathy in his hands and carpal tunnel in his wrists. Everything below his elbows starts tingling unpleasantly.

He walks over to the bed and collapses onto it, digging a Ziploc baggie full of pills out of his pocket and swallowing a Percocet dry. Then he lies there and stares at the ceiling fan for a while. It isn’t so bad if he doesn’t move.

He wonders idly what Jason is doing. Probably something similar. Amir can’t get to the balcony to smoke a cigarette in this state, so he digs his vape out of his pocket and starts taking deep drags off it. The nicotine lights his brain up and soothes some of the pain.

Maybe Jason is talking to Evan. God, he hopes not. The situation with Evan is so profoundly fucked up that it feels like a knotted mass of a million tiny strings, but at the very least, Amir wishes everyone would do him the courtesy of allowing him to control the flow of information about himself. He knows his parents and his husband are getting constant tidbits fed back to them by Jeff, and their corporate spies, and Jason, and whoever else, and he hates it. Whatever they’re hearing is just pedestrian hysteria, conjecture, devoid of context and larger meaning. And he can’t reassure any of them that he’s _fine_ , he’s just doing what they drove him to do, because he isn’t speaking to any of them.

Amir has the realization that it feels exactly like trying to explain jazz to them, and he starts laughing aloud to himself. Yes, his life is jazz. They just don’t get it, man! Fucking Phillistines!

This thought makes him think of music in general, and his laughter cuts short. The cocaine had been numbing him too much for him to feel dread before, but now he does. Would Jeff and Jya really kick him off the tour? It feels possible, now, in a way it hadn’t before. Jeff didn’t even seem that angry with him, he just seemed done.

Is everyone done with him? Is that how his family feels? A pang of terror shoots through his heart, and then he remembers Louis’ weekly pestering texts to him, and how Liam still texts random photos into a groupchat with him and Max and Patrick, and how he sometimes receives deliveries of things like socks and La Mer face cream and cologne samples at his hotels, care of “Z&H”. Mia still leaves him a voicemail once a month saying something along the lines of, “Hey asshole, just checking in. Not expecting you to pick up or respond to this, ‘cos you’re an asshole, I’m just calling to let you know you’re an asshole,” each time.

That isn’t the behavior of _done_ people. Evan might be done with him, but he can’t even access his regret or grief about that possibility, because it’s buried under so much anger.

Amir gets up with difficulty and staggers toward his luggage, unearthing his stash of cocaine from where he keeps it hidden in a thermos bottle. He holds the baggie in his hands, feeling contradictory twinges of instinct. 

He wants to throw it out, he does. He’s tired of living like this. That’s something no one seems to understand, as they keep begging him to change — he doesn’t _want_ to be this way! But Amir can’t possibly just start raw dogging reality. That would be like staring at the sun: acutely painful and insanely inadvisable. He thinks of a poster that his old roommate Greg used to have: an acrostic of SOBER. Son Of A Bitch Everything’s Real.

Christ, he hasn’t thought about Greg in months. Greg and Jordan probably text each other links to articles about Amir spiraling out, they probably feign concern and horror to disguise their morbid curiosity. Amir knows he would do the same, if the situation were reversed, and that’s why he can’t trust anyone anymore.

He can get through tonight and tomorrow without coke, and see how he feels. No show ‘til Thursday. He can get by on Xanax, nicotine, weed and coffee until then.

While he has his resolve steeled, Amir goes into the bathroom and dumps the cocaine out into the toilet. He has an immediate spasm of regret, and flushes it fast so he doesn’t try to fish it out or anything insane like that.

Then he lies down in bed and tries to sleep, but he’s shaking like a leaf for some reason he can’t identify. Amir gets up, vomits floridly into the fancy hotel toilet, then crawls back down from it and lies on the floor, his forehead pressed to the cool tile. Okay. A little better.

The floor is where he actually does fall asleep, with the faint sound of Japanese jazz coming from the Bluetooth speaker in the bedroom.

SACRAMENTO, JULY 9, 2042

Louis and Liam head back home on Wednesday morning, leaving Mia behind in Malibu. She’s elected to blow off practice all week so she can catch up with Aya.

“I know what I’m doing, Dad,” she said Tuesday night, when Louis questioned the wisdom of this, but he knew from the look in her eyes what she really meant: she needs this, right now. So he didn’t get after her about it.

Niall’s flight isn’t until later, so he says goodbye to them at Harry and Zayn’s house. After hugging Liam, he gives April a kiss, which she responds to by starting to cry. Niall looks alarmed and quickly moves to hug Louis.

“She’s just fussy this morning,” Louis says, laughing. Liam, who’s holding her, starts bouncing her to soothe her. “Alright. Bye lad.”

“Call me more often,” Niall threatens him.

“You call _me_ more often!”

“Both?”

“Both,” Louis agrees.

Harry and Zayn are already out front supervising the girls and the dog, stationed at the top of their long, modern driveway like two sentries. Louis gives them both brief hugs on his way to the car.

“See you soon, I’m sure,” he says to Zayn, while Harry says an animated goodbye to April.

Zayn squeezes his shoulder. “I’ll let you know if we hear anything.”

“I know you will. Thanks.”

Harry’s intel from Jeff was scant — all they know is that Amir has been officially warned by the entity of Full Stop. Louis isn’t optimistic. It’s not like they haven’t already tried threatening Amir.

And they saw the aftermath that ensued: TMZ got ahold of grainy cell-phone video of Amir and Jason having a row on a sidewalk in Portugal. It didn’t look good. It looked like coke rage in the worst way, a feeling Louis remembers well from the waning days of One Direction’s original iteration.

So Louis has put his hope aside, for now. One day at a time, one hour, one minute, one breath. One foot in front of the other, while he tenses up every time the phone rings.

Niall has followed everyone outside and is standing in front of the door waving, one hand on his hip like a grandmother. “Have a safe flight,” he shouts.

“You too,” Louis shouts after him. Liam uses April’s chubby toddler arm to wave at all of them. Marlena and Toni look up from their phones to wave and shout their goodbyes.

Once they’re in the car, have the baby strapped into the backseat, and are rolling down the length of the driveway, Louis lets out a heavy sigh that he’s been holding in ever since they got here.

Liam glances over at him. “Yeah, that was a fun one, ey?” he says lightly.

“I mean, Christ Almighty.”

“I know. I’ll roll you a massive joint when we get home.”

Louis cracks up. “You’re not the best joint roller.”

“It’s the thought that counts.”

“I disagree.”

Liam drums on the steering wheel. “Well, we made it through.”

“We did,” Louis agrees. “Was nice to see Niall, at least.”

Liam starts laughing; his laugh peters out gently as he rubs at his eye. “They are trying,” he says. “I know it doesn’t solve anything, but…”

“Oh, I know they are, love. It isn’t that. It’s just… y’know.”

“I do.”

“We just have different philosophies on life,” Louis says, “me and them. Very different. So for them to try to impose their philosophy on me… _now_ of all times…”

“I get it.”

“I was always closer to Amir than Zayn was,” Louis says, somewhat defensively. “Zayn may be who he takes after, and wants to emulate, but it’s me who he called every time something happened. It’s me who he wanted to confide in. Feels like they’re just ignoring that.”

“I don’t reckon they are,” Liam says. “I think that’s just a sore spot for Zayn, that both your kids with him are closer to you, and he’d rather pretend it ain’t the case. I think it’s also a sore spot for him that Amir, y’know, takes after him in some bad ways. I think he’s just in a lot of denial all around.”

“Well, I don’t get to be in denial! Where does he get off?”

Liam starts laughing again. “Babe…”

“I know.” Louis falls quiet. “Maybe if Amir gets kicked off this tour, it’ll be the best thing for him.”

“That’s what I’m hoping, too.”

*

Evan greets them at the door, clearly eager to be reunited with April. Louis hands her over, grateful to be relieved — the older she gets, the harder on him it gets to lug her around.

“How are the boys?” Louis says, following Evan into the foyer.

Evan shrugs. “They’re fine. We’ve just been playing a lot of Madden.”

“Drinking?” Louis says. Evan is rumpled in a way that indicates a hangover.

“A little,” Evan admits. “Sorry. I don’t even know where Paddy gets alcohol from, ‘cos it isn’t from me.”

“It’s fine, I’m not gonna hold you accountable for him.” That would be like holding Evan accountable for the sunrise. “You off work today? I wasn’t expecting you to be home.”

“I came home for lunch,” Evan says. “I might not go back in, I dunno. My boss was like, you seem like you’re not doing great, why don’t you take the rest of the day? I said nah, but now I’m thinking, y’know...”

“Bad night’s sleep?” Louis says, noting the dark circles under his eyes.

Evan shrugs and shifts his stance, bumping April up a little higher on his hip. He’s still in his work clothes, and April is distracted by playing with the badge on his shirt that reads FOREST SERVICE, US DEPARTMENT OF AGRICULTURE. “I dunno, I woke up a lot. How was the trip?”

Liam comes in behind them, then, dropping their luggage on the floor by the staircase, then sinking onto the bottom step and letting out a middle-aged sigh of exhaustion.

“Fine,” Louis says.

“Was she good on the flight?”

“Nah. Cried for most of it.”

Evan winces.

“It’s alright, mate,” Louis says. “She’s a toddler, that’s what they do. She was good on the flight down, she’s just been fussy today. Think maybe she missed you.”

“Did you miss me?” Evan says quietly to April, looking at her. She looks back at him and gives him a big smile. “How was the band meeting?” He addresses this to both Liam and Louis, looking back and forth between them.

Louis knows what he’s really after: Amir news.

“Shitty,” he says honestly. “Well, not, like, regarding the band. That bit was very productive. But I rowed with Harry, and with Zayn. Jeff apparently went to go confront Amir, I don’t think it went very well, but he told him he’s gonna get kicked off the tour if he doesn’t stop, er…” Louis taps his nose. “Then it looks like he got in a fight with Jason.”

“I saw that,” Evan says, nodding. “I’ve been waiting for Jason to try to call me, but I, uh, I blocked his number back in March, so I don’t think he knows he can, even though I unblocked him like a month ago.”

“You could reach out to him,” Louis suggests.

“I could,” Evan says, but it looks like the mere thought of this makes him feel sick.

Liam gets up with a sigh, slapping his hands against his thighs. “Lou,” he says. “You need fresh air, come sit in the garden with me.”

“Okay,” Louis agrees. He likes to sit around in the garden and play on his phone while watching Liam do backbreaking work. Liam, in turn, likes to be observed doing backbreaking work, and ostentatiously flexes his muscles for Louis as he does it.

“He keeps coughing,” Liam says to Evan, who lifts his brow in concern.

“I’ll go to the fuckin’ doctor,” Louis says.

“When?” Liam counters.

“I dunno. Next week?”

“You’ll go tomorrow,” Liam tells him.

“Fine, I’ll go tomorrow.”

*

Once Louis has tired of the great outdoors and all its mosquitos, he heads inside to say hi to his sons, who have just finished mauling each other on the basketball court and are now eating all the food in the house.

“Hi,” Patrick says to him as he slides the glass patio door shut behind him, then sprays whipped cream onto a piece of the pie Liam got at the farmer’s market before they left. He’s pink all over and soaked in sweat, like he just ran a marathon — he always tries to best Max athletically, despite Max having about three inches and thirty pounds of muscle over him.

“Hi hi,” Louis says. He goes over to Max, who is kneeling by the island, pawing through a cabinet, and tousles his hair. “What’re you looking for, Fox?”

“Tortilla chips,” Max mutters. “Wait! Found ‘em.” He bounces to his feet and pulls Louis into a hug. “Hi. Missed you.”

Louis squeezes him, “Was only gone a few days.”

“I know, but I was gone before that.”

“What are you going to do when you have to go off to college?”

“Come home and visit,” Max says, like this is obvious. “You want some salsa?”

“Sure.”

“We made it last night with shit from Dads’s garden,” Patrick says, pointing to the bowl. “It might be a little spicy for you.”

Louis takes a chip from Max’s bag and goes over to the salsa, dipping it in. “That’s actually not bad,” he says, swallowing. “Actually, that’s properly good.”

“That’s all Paddy,” Max says generously. “I just did what he told me, cut up the jalapenos and stuff.”

“Paddy’s got the chef gene,” Louis says, reaching up to stroke his hair. This probably embarrasses Patrick, but he’s sweet enough not to wriggle away from it. Patrick has very pettable hair — it’s thick, downy and soft, like a dog’s undercoat, and wavy, like Liam’s used to be. “It is a bit spicy, though.”

Patrick sets his pie down and hands Louis a glass of water, which he accepts gratefully.

“Go shower once you’ve eaten, stinky boys,” Louis says. “You’re stinkin’ up my kitchen.”

Max sniffs himself. “Ugh, yeah, and I’m meeting Caroline later.”

“Don’t shower, then,” Patrick says wickedly. “Just show up drenched in pheromones. She’ll love it.”

“She will not love it,” Louis counters.

He leaves them and heads upstairs, looking for Evan, just wanting to make sure that everything’s alright. Finding Evan asleep the other day, with April wandering the house, made him nervous.

But when he finds Evan, he’s just sitting in his bay window that overlooks the garden, holding April on his lap and reading a book aloud. Heather has told them to try to start reading to her without signing, so she can learn to sometimes only rely on the implant for understanding. Louis goes over and sits on the floor beside them, tipping his head back against the wall and closing his eyes. It’s soothing to listen to someone reading aloud; it makes him remember being a kid.

This moment of peace is interrupted by Louis’ phone ringing. He fishes it from his pocket and sees a caller ID he hasn’t seen in years: Jason Hudson.

His heart starts pounding. Why would Jason call him, unless something is wrong? He lifts the phone to his ear in a panic, and jumps to his feet. “Jason?” he says.

Evan stops reading and looks up at him with worry in his eyes.

“Yeah, it’s me,” Jason says.

“What’s wrong? Is everything alright?”

“Everything’s fine, sorry,” Jason says, and Louis’ entire body goes limp with relief. He mouths _it’s fine_ to Evan, who closes his eyes and exhales. “I just called to, uh, like. I dunno. Give you an update, I guess…”

“What’s the update?” Louis puts the phone on speaker and holds it between him and Evan. April looks at it curiously, her eyes searching the screen, her tiny hand fisted in Evan’s shirt.

“Well,” Jason says, “he kicked me off the tour.”

“Yeah, we got that impression from the video of him screaming at you,” Evan says drily.

There’s a pause from Jason. “Evan?”

“Yeah.”

“Hey, man. What, am I on speaker?”

“Yeah,” Louis says. “Sorry.”

“No, no worries. Uh… yeah. Basically, Jeff told him to get his shit together, and he told him to fuck himself, and I kinda sided with Jeff.”

“Ballsy of you,” Louis says.

“Yeah. Amir didn’t appreciate that, he told me to fuck off. But Jeff said if he wasn’t cleaned up by tomorrow then he’s off the tour. And this was yesterday, so it’s tomorrow now. Their next date is Thursday, in Seville, and I think Jeff wanted him completely clean by then.”

Evan whistles. “Shit.”

“There’s no way he’ll be able to pull that off,” Louis says.

“Correct,” Jason agrees.

“What have you guys been doing?” Evan says, his face stony but his tone even. “What and how much?”

“Honestly, it’s pretty much just been coke, Xanax and molly. A ton of each.”

“How much coke?” Louis says.

“A lot. We were going through a couple grams a day.”

“Is he snorting the Xanax?” Evan says.

“Yeah.”

“How much is he drinking?” Louis says.

“Not that much, honestly? So how it works is like, the coke is just to get him through performances and being around people, and stuff. The Xanax is so he can sleep, or calm down, I think. The molly was just for when we were clubbing, and he’s kind of stopped clubbing, lately. He’s becoming a little reclusive.”

“That’s not good,” Louis mutters to Evan, who nods in agreement while stroking April’s hair. “Anything else, Jason?”

“Uh, a few other things here and there, but just when we were out partying. We’ve done some ket, and stuff. Nothing in the arm… he does take Oxy sometimes for his hand pain, but that’s it. I don’t think it even works, ‘cos what he has is nerve pain. He was talking about getting gabapentin, or something…” Jason seems to realize he’s babbling, and trails off.

“Thanks for the honesty,” Louis says, and means it. “How’s he otherwise?”

“Bad. Paranoid, angry, mean.”

“Yeah, snorting an eight ball a day will do that to you,” Evan says nastily.

“It’s not an eight ball a day,” Jason hurries to say. “And, by the way, Evan, you’re the one who got busted in high school for coke —”

“Oh, you want to bring up shit from seven years ago to justify yourself? I was eighteen. You’re twenty-five years old, you pathetic —”

“Alright, settle down,” Louis interrupts. “This ain’t productive. Evan, we want to hear about Amir, not ride Jason about his life choices.”

Evan falls into sullen silence.

Jason clears his throat. “What I wanted to say is, uh, Amir’s also just, like, I dunno… sad. Sad in a really huge way, a bad way.”

A wave of grief and guilt crashes over Louis. He holds steady against it.

“Is he sleeping with anyone else?” Evan says, obviously working hard to keep his voice devoid of emotion as he says it.

“I don’t think so,” Jason says, after a pause. “I really don’t think he’s, uh… Sorry, I feel weird talking about this with Louis on the phone.”

“Cheers, but I’m familiar with the concept of sex,” Louis says.

Jason laughs awkwardly. “I just feel like that’s not really what he’s thinking about right now. He’s like a shark or something, I dunno. All he does is perform and party, and party more so he can perform more. He seems really numb. Sometimes he trashes a hotel room or gets in an argument with somebody, but that’s just the coke, I think. I haven’t seen him trying to hook up with anybody, or talking about it. He has a lot of people trying to get with him, all the time, but he just, like, blows them off or diverts them to me.”

Louis is deeply grossed out by this last sentence, and can’t help making a face.

“He refuses to take his wedding ring off,” Jason adds. “Even when he performs, he keeps it on.”

“We’ve noticed,” Louis says. Evan stays quiet.

“I told him I’m worried about him,” Jason says, his voice ragged. “I told him he needs help, and I couldn’t stand around and watch him do this to himself anymore. I’m sorry I didn’t do that sooner. I really didn’t get how bad things were.”

“I _told_ you,” Evan snaps. He’s still playing with April, letting her hold onto his finger with two of her little ones as he bounces her on his thigh. April doesn’t even seem to notice he’s gotten angry. “I told you exactly what was going on, and you didn’t listen to me, dude.”

“I know,” Jason’s voice crackles over the phone. “I’m sorry. I didn’t get it. I’m not like you, I don’t know what it’s like to be married, and have a family, and shit.”

Evan’s face is red, and his jaw is set hard.

“There’s nothing you can say to me that’s gonna make me feel worse than I already do,” Jason says. “I feel insanely guilty, and physically, I feel like I got hit by a truck, so —”

Evan’s eyes flash. “You know what —”

“Listen,” Louis interrupts, “thanks for letting us know, Jason. It’s appreciated. Sorry about Amir slagging you off.”

“No, that’s my bad.”

“Correct,” Evan snaps.

“Alright, I won’t take up any more of your time,” Jason says, clearly eager to duck out of the path of Evan’s anger. “Lemme know if you need anything. Bye.”

“Bye,” Louis says, and hangs up. “Look,” he tells Evan, “let’s, y’know, try not to alienate him. He’s seemingly on our side now.”

Evan rolls his eyes. “He expected us to feel sorry for him ‘cos he’s strung out from doing nothing but doing drugs and —” He covers April’s ears. “Fucking people.”

“Coke does tend to make people a bit self-absorbed.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve lost all respect for him, and I didn’t have much to begin with. He’s an idiot.”

“I completely agree. I’ve thought so since you all were kids. Never liked him much, ask Payno. Had my moments where I didn’t rate _you_ much, either.”

Evan laughs at this.

“But him being a dumb kid is why I’m not really angry at him,” Louis says. “He just went along with Amir after the fact, he didn’t cause any of this.”

“He didn’t help it, either,” Evan says.

“No, but I’ll be honest, I’ve been a bit relieved that Amir’s had someone around who actually knows him and cares about him. In the industry, if you don’t keep that sort of person around, it’s very easy to get surrounded by snakes and yes-men, and lose sight of yourself.” Louis thinks of Zayn, but doesn’t bring him up. “Anyway. We’ll see what happens.”

Evan nods.

Louis checks his watch. “Time for April to eat dinner, I think.”

“You want dinner?” Evan says to her, signing _dinner?_

“Yeah,” she chirps.

SACRAMENTO, JULY 11, 2042

On their drive into the office, Patrick keeps fidgeting and glancing at Louis like he wants to tell him about something, but he waits until they’ve gotten into the office and had coffee, first. He comes into Louis’ office while Louis is still drinking his, looking out over the river and scrolling through emails. “Dad?”

“Yo,” Louis says, turning to him and flicking his watch display away. “What’s up?”

Patrick has a seat in the chair in front of his desk, looking nervous, which makes Louis feel like Simon Cowell. He quickly rounds his desk and sits on the edge of it, so it’s no longer in between them.

“I think I found your twenty-five grand for Kosmonauta’s tour promo,” Patrick says.

Louis raises his eyebrows. “Sorry?”

Patrick hesitates. “Actually, I think I found fifty.”

“Sorry, you _found_ fifty thousand dollars? Where? In the couch cushions?”

Patrick starts laughing and hands him a folder full of print-outs. “Just, uh, take a look at this.”

Louis opens it and begins to do so. He’s immediately impressed by the depth of thought Patrick has put into this, and how thorough he’s been in weighing contingencies. He’s right — there is money to be squeezed from their merch budget.

“Paddy,” he says, closing the folder. “First, I’m very impressed.”

“Thank you.”

“Second, this is proper risky. We’d be, er, building the bridge as we walk on it, financially. And it makes very bullish assumptions of our profit margins.”

Patrick shakes his head. “They’re really not. If you look at my data, I projected similar upswings and downswings as their previous three tours, I just indexed it to how much we expect them to sell this tour. But I tracked how those figures have historically increased from tour to tour, and there’s no reason they shouldn’t hit those numbers. I think my estimates are actually kind of on the low side, even. Their streaming numbers are way up since their last tour.”

Louis just sits there, speechless. “What did you do this for?” he says. “Did Eliza ask you to look into this?”

Patrick shrugs. “I was just bored, and I remembered you were pissed about that money, so I thought I’d see if I could get it back for you.”

“That’s incredibly sweet of you.”

“Don’t be gross.”

“Sorry,” Louis says, laughing. “Listen… have I not been paying enough attention to you? ‘Cos you don’t need to go to these lengths to get my attention.”

Patrick folds his arms across his chest and shoots Louis a sullen, dubious look.

“What?” Louis says.

“Are you sure I don’t? ‘Cos Amir’s kind of taken up all your attention for a minute now.”

“All?” Louis says, smiling at him.

“Okay, not _all_ ,” he allows, “but a lot of it.”

Louis sighs. “I know.”

“You do?”

“Yes. I know things have been rough lately, and I haven’t really been myself. I’m sorry.”

Patrick shrugs, but it’s clear that hearing this affects him in some way, like he’s been wanting to hear it for a long time. “It’s fine.”

“No, it’s really not. You shouldn’t get less of my time when you’re about to go off to college just ‘cos your brother’s going through some shit.”

“Yeah, but whatever.”

“No, not whatever. I’m apologizing to you, adult to adult, and I wanted to say, it’s been lovely having you work with us this summer.”

Patrick looks very chuffed about this. “Alright,” he says, smiling. “Thanks.”

“No, thank you,” Louis says, and bops him on the head with the folder. “This is actually very helpful. I might not use your _exact_ plan here, ‘cos as I said, it’s a bit out there, but you’re right that we can trim fat from the tour in ways I hadn’t recognized. Good work.”

“You’re welcome, boss.”

SEVILLE, JULY 11, 2042

Amir has always wanted to see the Plaza de España, and it’s exactly as beautiful as he expected, even though day 3 without cocaine has him wracked with chills, muscle tremors and an overpowering sense of dread. He doesn’t know how the fuck he’s going to play their show tonight, but he tries to forget about that as he lies down on the ceramic tiles next to the canal, staring up at the gorgeous blue sky, smoking one of the Gauloises he stole from Lionel.

“ _Atención_ ,” a cop barks at him, appearing at the edge of his vision. “ _Señor. Reacomodarse en el asiento._ ”

Amir spreads his arms. “No habla,” he says, annoyed. He’s fashionable and ethnically ambiguous enough that whenever he’s out and about in a country anywhere near the Mediterranean, they always assume he’s a local who speaks the language.

(To be fair to the cop, he does speak excellent Spanish, and he knows exactly what the guy said, it’s just the principle of the thing. He is not a Spaniard, and resents being mistaken for one.)

“Sorry,” the cop says. “Sit up. You can’t lie down on the plaza.”

You can’t lie down on a plaza? Since when? Amir wonders if this is some weird anti-terrorism thing — almost everything is, these days. He sits up, though, taking a drag of his cigarette. “Alright. _Lo siento, odio ofender a la policía… la preciosa policía_.”

The cop stiffens, then turns and glares at Amir before going on his way. Amir laughs to himself and smokes some more.

He’s a little more tan by the time he gets back to his hotel that evening, and he checks himself out in the large mirrors in front of the elevator. Looking at himself in the mirror for too long leads to a queasy sense of unreality these days, though, so Amir quickly abandons this and heads down the hallway to his room, pulling up his room access key on his watch.

He scans it and slips inside, kicking his shoes off. He makes it all the way down the little hallway and is in the middle of the yawn when he notices someone is sitting on his bed, and the yawn turns into a scream.

“Sorry,” Jya says, putting her hands up. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Amir shrugs and tries to look manly in spite of the scream. “What’s up?” he says. Another chill wracks him, and he shakes it off. He’s way more exhausted than he realized; he surreptitiously glances at his watch and realizes their show is in two hours. Christ, there’s no way he can go on tonight without coke.

His despair must show on his face, because Jya’s tone is gentle when she speaks again. “We really need to talk,” she says, and sweeps her dreads back off of her shoulders before reaching up to twist them together in a bundle. That's a nervous habit of hers. Why is she nervous, right now?

“Okay,” Amir says numbly. “Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine. Sort of. Can you sit?”

Amir comes over and sits down on the bed next to her. Anticipation is building in him; it feels unwieldy to grapple, like trying to hang onto a dolphin. Something momentous is about to happen, he knows it.

Jya turns to him and takes his hands in hers. Amir stares down at them, her tawny ones over his olive, her tattoos over his.

“I want you to know this isn’t meant to hurt you,” she says. “Honestly, it’s the opposite. I respect you so much as an artist, and I’ve really loved working with you, and I’d be doing wrong by you if I didn’t do this.”

“What is ‘this’?” Amir says quietly.

There’s a long pause before she says, “You’re off the tour.”

No. No.

“Wait,” Amir cries, looking up at her. Her dark eyes are full of tears. “No, come on! Jya, seriously? I stopped doing coke! I haven’t done coke in three days!”

“Three whole days, wow,” she says, and laughs. “No, listen, Amir — this seriously isn’t even about that.” She squeezes his hand. “I’m worried about you. I’m really, really worried about you. You’re not okay. You’re in so much pain, and I’m sorry I tried to ignore it for so long, ‘cos I just really wanted to work with you. When it comes to the music, we vibe so well —“

“We do, yeah! Why would you throw that away?”

She ignores him and carries on. “You need to stop lying to all of us, and let us be real with you. You can’t be here, okay? You need to go get help, before something bad happens.”

Amir’s face is burning, and his head is humming and buzzing. “Like what?”

“Like you dying,” Jya says, her voice grave. “I can’t have that on my hands, seriously. This tour will be okay if you leave, I’ll be fine, we can find someone else to open, or have different openers every night, but I can’t have you die on me.”

“Why do you think I’m gonna _die?_ ”

“Amir, you talk about dying all the time.”

“No I don’t,” he cries.

Jya looks at him, and her expression stops his heart. It’s so knowing and sympathetic, it’s like being hit with an arrow.

“You need to go home,” she says. “There’s no other way. You need to get away from the drugs, and the people, and this whole scene. You can’t handle it, I’m sorry. I know that sounds harsh. Not everybody can… I wasn’t sure I could, when I started. It’s a hard life. And you have so much shit you’re not dealing with.”

“You don’t even know me,” Amir snaps.

“Yes, I do,” Jya says, giving him a sad smile. “I know you miss your daughter. You tell me about her all the time. Every time we drink, she’s all you talk about, her and your husband. You have to go home.”

Amir starts to bawl, then. He can’t help it, this is all just too much, and the coke withdrawals have him feeling like he’s got the flu. Jya wraps her arms around him and hugs him.

“It’s okay,” she whispers. “Just go home.”

“They don’t want me,” Amir sobs.

“Yes, they do.”

Amir collapses onto her lap, weeping hysterically. He feels like she shot him in the heart and is watching him bleed out all over her. Jya just strokes his hair in silence, waiting him out, but he doesn’t feel like he’ll ever stop crying, now that he started. He can barely catch his breath.

SACRAMENTO, JULY 11, 2042

Louis’ doctor’s office X-rays his chest, first thing. He wasn’t worried when he went in, but his doctor gets him worried — knitting his brow when he notes Louis’ weight loss since his last appointment, and remarking, “This isn’t good,” when he listens to his chest.

They take blood work and a mucus sample, too, and then send him back to an exam room to wait for his X-rays to come back. Louis tries to ignore the worry building in his gut. He fucks around on his phone, responding to texts he’s been procrastinating on, and doing his usual scan for Amir news.

There are rumors brewing on Twitter, he notices: Amir didn’t open for Jya’s show in Spain today, and a Spanish EDM artist replaced him last-minute. His worry spikes, but then he reassures himself that if someone replaced Amir, he must be fine. They wouldn’t replace him unless they knew ahead of time that he wouldn’t make the show, which rules out an emergent situation like an overdose. Especially since Louis hasn’t heard anything by now. Spain is like eight or nine hours ahead of them, after all.

He texts Harry _anything from Jeff? Amir awol in spain_

Dr. Burke walks back in, then, holding X-rays in his hand. Louis puts his phone down and looks up at him.

“So,” Burke says, plopping down onto his little rolly stool. He’s a very tall guy, like 6’5 or something, and he looks uncomfortable doing this, like it’s hell on his knees. “Just to get this part out of the way — you don’t appear to have any masses or growths in your lungs, which is good.”

Louis exhales hard. “So not lung cancer?”

“Correct. However, I am very concerned about the fact that you appear to have a case of pneumonia.”

Louis blinks at him. “What, like walking pneumonia?”

“No, like serious pneumonia,” Burke says. He rolls one of his sleeves up, and the X-rays in his hand make a wobbly laminate sound. “As in, you’re about a minute away from the hospital, and you should at the very least be at home, in bed.”

“I feel fine, though.”

“Do you? You’ve lost eight pounds since we last saw you, your breathing sounds horrendous, your pulse ox was 90, and you’re complaining of pleuritic pain, dizziness, and chronic nausea.”

Louis shrugs. “That’s from stress,” he says.

“No, it’s from the raging bacterial infection in your lungs. I’m writing you a few prescriptions,” Burke says, pulling his pad out. “We’ll want to wait for your tests to get back for me to be sure of which antibiotic to prescribe, but my office will call you when we’ve called that prescription in, okay? That’ll be by tomorrow morning at the latest, and you’ll need to go pick it up ASAP. I’m also giving you something for the cough. You need to rest, now, for at least a couple weeks. I’m serious about this, Mr. Tomlinson.”

“Okay!”

Burke fixes him with a look.

“What?” Louis cries. “I said okay.”

“Okay,” Burke says dubiously.

Louis gets a text back from Harry, then. “Sorry, mate, one sec,” he says, his eyes scanning the screen of his watch.

_Jeff is stonewalling me (Lol...) but my sources tell me that Jya kicked Amir off of the tour herself and told him to go to rehab. Stand by for more info._

That simple “Lol...” is doing a lot of heavy lifting. Louis blows out a breath, which causes a sharp pain between his ribs, and he grimaces. Burke makes a ‘hmm’ noise.

*

Louis, sufficiently chastened, goes back to his car, takes multiple hits off of a dab pen to spike his appetite, then tells the car to take him to a KFC drive through, where he forces himself to eat about 2,000 calories in one sitting. This isn’t even that much food, since it’s KFC.

Then he has the car drive him home, where he sits in the driveway for a while, debating himself on whether or not to tell Liam he has pneumonia.

Pros of telling him: Not having to lie to Liam’s face. Cons: Literally everything else. Liam will force him into bed and prevent him from doing anything by himself, which will drive him crazy, and also feels totally unnecessary, because he’s fine, really.

He’ll wait for his bloodwork to get back, he decides. Pneumonia is an infection, which means all Burke based his diagnosis off of was his X-ray, and that’s not _proof_. You need bloodwork or a culture to prove an infection, Louis knows this. He might not even have pneumonia to begin with. He might just have Funny Crunchy Lung for no real reason.

Okay, so, not telling Liam, then. Not yet, anyway.

Heartened, Louis gets out of the car and grimaces at the amount of KFC trash that is now in it. He’s still pretty high, so he just slams the door on it. That’s a problem for tomorrow’s Louis.

He goes inside and finds the twins in the den, playing 2K with them while April sits on Max’s lap and occasionally reaches for the buttons on his controller. Evan usually isn’t home for another hour or so — he has a long commute.

Louis leans on the doorway. “Boys?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says, glancing briefly from the screen.

“Have you taken your niece outside at all, today?”

“Yeah!” Max exclaims. “I did for like an hour, earlier, we were blowing bubbles.”

“Good. Paddy?”

“Oh, come on, Dad! I was working with you all day,” Patrick says, pausing the game. “I just got home a couple hours ago, I’m trying to relax.”

“Y’know, you can relax by spending time with April.”

“She’s not my baby! This isn’t fair.”

“You’re helping Evan out,” Louis says. “He appreciates it, and so do I.”

“Just hire another nanny already!”

“It has to be the _right_ nanny,” Louis says. “Look at it this way, you’re bonding with April, which means she’ll take care of you when you’re old if you don’t have kids of your own.”

“I’m only sixteen years older than her,” Patrick says. “How’s she gonna take care of me when I’m old? _She’ll_ be old.”

“Alright, fair point,” Louis says, and coughs dryly into his sleeve. “Just make sure to talk to her a bit, please.”

“I do talk to her,” Patrick says. “I’ve been explaining my 2K strategy to her, very in-depth.”

April manages to wrest Max’s controller away from him and starts hitting buttons at random, giggling to herself. Max smiles at her.

“That cough sounds bad, Dad,” he says, glancing up.

“Just got back from the doctor,” Louis says. “I’ve got a cold, that’s all.”

“Yeah?” Max says.

“Yes. Just sounds like shit ‘cos I used to smoke. Don’t ever start smoking.”

“No one smokes anymore,” Patrick says.

That’s not true. Amir smokes. They’ve seen pap pictures of him smoking outside clubs all over Europe, scowling, looking very cool and fashionable and absolutely miserable. Louis wants to shake him and scream at him, “Is there one single mistake that your father and have I made that you aren’t dead-set on repeating?”

“Right,” Louis says, and leaves them to their pretend career in basketball.

He finds Liam upstairs, sitting on a yoga mat on their bedroom floor and foam rolling his hamstrings. “Hi,” he says, as soon as he sees Louis. “What’s the doctor say?”

“It’s just a cold,” Louis deflects. “I’m fine. You sore?”

“A little,” Liam says. “Just getting old, I think.”

“Mmm. Wanna cuddle me?”

“Sure,” Liam says, bouncing easily to his feet, which calls his ‘getting old’ comment into question.

Louis goes over and collapses onto their bed in a puddle of exhaustion. Liam wraps him up in his arms and starts spooning him, kissing his neck.

“Hi,” Louis murmurs, petting his forearm. “You can fuck me if you want, but you’ll have to do all the work.”

“Wow, you make it sound so appealing. Haven’t I just said I’m sore?”

“I’m only offering ‘cos you always get wood when we cuddle. It’s called managing expectations.”

“Well, what if I don’t get wood this time,” Liam counters. “Surely I’ve got some control over my ding-dong, by now.”

Louis reaches behind himself and feels Liam’s crotch. “You’re literally already hard!” he cries, laughing, and starts to cough.

“Take it as the compliment it is and leave me alone,” Liam says. “That cough sounds like shit, you sure you’re alright?”

“Yeah, I got an X-ray, and shit —” The cough suddenly overpowers Louis, and he sits up, wracked by it, hacking away. Liam sits up with him, patting his back, but he keeps coughing until he’s bent in half.

Finally it ends, and Louis examines his sleeve, now covered in alarmingly green mucus, which contains… oops. Blood.

He wonders lightning-fast if there’s any way to avoid having Liam notice this, but even as he’s thinking it, Liam’s voice is ringing in his ear: “Is that _blood?_ ”

“So,” Louis rasps, wincing, “I might, er, have a bit of pneumonia, actually.”

“ _Louis_!”

“I’m fine,” he says, and coughs some more. “They aren’t even sure yet, they’re waitin’ on labs, so they didn’t give me an antibio —”

Liam scrambles off the bed and lifts him bodily, wrapping an arm around him. “I knew something was wrong with you. I’m gonna fucking kill you, are you serious? They told you you’ve got _pneumonia_ , and you tell me you’ve got a cold?”

“Pneumonia is a sort of cold,” Louis says defensively.

“No it isn’t!”

“Where are we going?”

“To hospital! You’re coughing up blood!”

“Oh, no, Christ, Liam, not _hospital_.”

“Yes, hospital!” Liam grabs a few pairs of sunglasses and hats off of their dresser as he drags Louis out of the room, presumably for pap-ducking purposes.

“You’re being hysterical,” Louis says, despite that his voice currently sounds like a truck made of knives revving its tires on gravel.

“Shut it,” Liam says. “God, I’m narked at you. I’ve never lost a boner so fast in my life.”

Louis laughs at this, but that makes him cough more.

“Stop making noises,” Liam orders, dogging his heels as he walks down the stairs. He makes Louis wait at the foot of the staircase as he goes down the hall to the den and opens the door. “Oi! Boys! I’m taking your idiot father to hospital, ‘cos he has pneumonia, apparently.”

There’s clattering and the sound of hard footsteps, and then both the twins appear in the doorway, Patrick with April in his arms. They both look stricken.

“You said you had a cold!” Max says accusatorily, pointing at Louis.

“Pneumonia is not the death sentence you all seem to think it is,” Louis rasps. “I am not a hundred years old or a baby, I’ll be fine. Your father’s a hysterical lunatic.”

“Anyway,” Liam says, ignoring this, “you’re on your own for dinner, so use my card to order takeaway for everyone. And remember April can only have little bites of whatever you’re having. _Little._ Don’t try to give her an entire slice of pizza.”

“We did that _once_!” Patrick exclaims.

“It was a really thin slice, too,” Max adds.

Liam seems to have limited interest in arguing this point. He takes his leave of them, dragging Louis into the hallway and setting out a pair of slip-on shoes in front of him.

“Fuck’s sake,” Louis says, “I can get my own shoes —”

“Stop talking!”

MALIBU, JULY 11, 2042

Mia is surprised to find out that many of her college friends not only remember her, but have actively missed her since she left the area, and are happy to hear from her after Aya nudges her into texting them and asking to meet up.

“See?” Aya says, shifting gears as she glides down the 1. She abhors self-driving cars and automatic transmissions, which Mia has always found sexy of her. “I told you.”

“We’ll see if any of them actually show up,” Mia says dismissively, sticking her arm out the window of the convertible and wiggling her fingers in the ocean air.

On Aya’s suggestion, they’ve invited about twenty people total to meet them out at a Malibu beer garden. Mia initially wasn’t thrilled about this plan, because Aya’s been working all day, and she wanted some alone time with her. But now that they’ve met up, Mia understands the logic behind it.

They’ve spent the last few nights together, meeting up when Aya gets off work and driving around Los Angeles, but there’s still a tension between them that fills the air like cotton and makes natural conversation hard. Having the buffer of alcohol and other people will probably help to get them over the hump of weirdness.

At first, it seems like this won’t be the case, and Mia starts to worry that she’s overblown Aya’s level of interest in her. A ton of their friends end up coming, and they each get distracted by catching up with them, so much so that they’re separated for the bulk of the night.

Mia is waiting at the bar for another amaretto sour when hands land on her hips. She jerks in surprise and half-turns, and then Aya whispers in her ear, “Relax. It’s just me.”

“Hi,” Mia says, her muscles untensing.

“You’re really jumpy,” Aya says, letting her go. “Why are you so jumpy?”

Mia thinks of Katarina, and in her inebriated state, she almost starts to cry. Aya seems to pick up on this, because she’s suddenly watching Mia with a concerned look.

The bartender hands her her drink, and she grabs it, grateful to have something to do with her hands and mouth.

“I haven’t seen you all night,” Aya says. “Let’s go catch up. My friends are all playing drinking games, now, and you know I hate those.”

Mia laughs. “Mine are too.”

Aya surveys the beer garden, which is packed with drunken yuppies cavorting under rows of paper lanterns and willow trees. “Yeah… I was hoping the two groups would mix more.”

“My college friends are all former jocks and stoner business majors,” Mia says. “Your college friends are all, like, brilliant people who work in politics. Different crowds.”

“Well, anyway. Let’s go talk.”

They head over to an empty table with two seats, one that butts right up against a tree and has some amount of privacy to it. Aya lights a cigarette when they sit down, and Mia watches her hands.

“I’m sorry,” Aya says. “I can put it out. It’s a terrible habit, but everyone smokes constantly in Europe. They make them a lot safer, now, but it’s still nasty, I know.”

Mia holds her hand out and wiggles her fingers.

“Really?” Aya says, laughing. Her eyes sparkle.

“I smoke sometimes when I drink,” Mia admits. “Just lately. I was dating someone who smoked a ton, it rubs off.”

Aya hands her a cigarette and eyes her. “Who was this?”

“My girlfriend Katarina. We played for Sacramento SC together, up ‘til, uh… last week, I guess. She got cut.”

“Did she?”

“Yeah, right after I dumped her.”

Aya blows out smoke. “So she’s an ex?”

Mia nods.

“Is that a sad fact, or a regular one?”

Mia smiles. She loves Aya’s version of English: English via Persian. “Maybe a good fact,” she says.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. It was pretty toxic.” Mia holds out her hand for Aya’s lighter, but instead, Aya puts her cigarette into her mouth and leans forward. Mia lights her own off of Aya’s. Their eyes meet, and Mia’s face heats up.

“Toxic how?” Aya says, cool as a cucumber.

“Uh.” Mia blows out smoke and coughs, taking a long sip of her drink. The lemon juice and liquor combined burn her tongue in a pleasant way. “Do you really want to hear this?”

“Yes,” Aya says decisively.

“Alright. It’s not a big deal, just, y’know, we used to get drunk and hit each other.”

Aya blinks at her. “Sorry?”

“Well, she used to hit me, I guess.” Mia downs the rest of her drink, feeling like an absolute idiot. “And I’d, y’know, defend myself.”

“Yasmeen…”

“Please don’t feel sorry for me,” Mia begs her. “I can handle literally anything besides people feeling sorry for me.”

“I know,” Aya says, looking crushed. “It just hurts me to hear that happened to you.”

“Well, she was a crazy Russian, I should have known.” Mia chokes out a congested laugh and smokes more. “It’s fine.”

Aya takes Mia’s hands in hers. “It’s not.”

“Alright, well, that may be true, but I have bigger shit to worry about, right now.”

“Like what?”

“Like I feel like Amir might never come home,” Mia admits. “And if he does, it’ll be in a body bag.”

She hasn’t said this out loud to anyone yet, and doing so makes her crumble, pulling her hands from Aya’s and bending over her folded arms. Aya comes around the table and wraps her arms around Mia, holding her.

“Sorry,” Mia says after a few moments, and lets out a shuddering gasp. “Fuck.”

Aya is rubbing her back. “It’s okay,” she says, stroking Mia’s hair. “It’s really okay.”

“Yeah, but we’re in public…”

“It doesn’t bother me.”

“I don’t want to be a mess in front of you,” Mia mutters, rubbing at her eyes. Crying took the edge off of her, and now her resolve is steeled, and she’s embarrassed. “You left me ‘cos I was a mess.”

“I didn’t leave you because you were a mess,” Aya says quietly. “We broke up because we wanted different things.”

“Whatever.”

“I really don’t think you’re a mess. I want to help you.”

“How?” Mia says, lifting her head and wiping her eyes. Her cigarette has gone out, but she doesn’t really care. “How are you gonna help me?”

Aya goes back to her seat, but she pulls it close to Mia’s. “I told you, I want you back in my life.”

“But you’re like four million miles away.” (Thousand, rather, but Mia likes to exaggerate hugely for the sake of drama.)

“Come to Germany with me,” Aya suggests, her face bright.

Mia stares at her. “What?”

“Just for a few days. It doesn’t have to be now, it could be over a weekend, or whenever you have some time. But come see Berlin, and spend some time with me. I think you’ll love it there.”

“I have a job in Sacramento,” Mia says, but even as she says it, she’s aware that she barely cares. She fell out of love with soccer a long time ago — longer than she even wants to admit to herself. Plus, the team was in shambles even before Katarina’s untimely departure.

“Maybe you could take a season off, for your health,” Aya says. “You don’t seem like you’re doing well.”

Mia swallows. “I’m not.”

“Just a few days in Berlin. I won’t pressure you, I promise. I just want you to see how you feel about it. I know you probably won’t want to leave your family, especially right now, but we can talk about it.”

“Sure. We can talk.”

Aya hesitates. “I was honestly afraid of holding you back, before. I felt like you had this glamorous celebrity life, and you were starting this career as a professional athlete, and I shouldn’t try to force you to conform to my dreams. But it kind of seems like things have been tough for you, and maybe what I always saw as glamorous is actually kind of difficult, and draining.”

Mia nods, grateful to her for understanding this. “I’ve actually never seen Berlin,” she says. “Only been there on layovers.”

Aya lights up. “Perfect! I’ll show you around.”

*

Everyone but Zayn is asleep by the time Mia gets home — Harry and the girls go to bed early. The massive, stately beach house is quiet and still as Mia walks in and leaves her Birkin on the table in the front hall.

She finds Zayn out on the patio by the pool, lounging on a chaise, watching TV on their patio projector screen. Mia takes a seat on the chaise beside his.

“Hey,” Zayn says, glancing at her. “How was your night?”

“Good,” Mia says. “I might go to Germany.”

He looks puzzled by this.

“With Aya,” she clarifies. “For a bit. Just get away from it all. I haven’t decided yet, though.”

Zayn nods. “I like Germany.”

Mia gestures at the screen. “What are you watching?”

Zayn glances back up at it. The light from the projector combines with the reflections from the pool to make an eerie wave pattern on his face. “Show about outer space, nothing special.”

Mia’s watch starts buzzing, displaying Liam’s name; she pops her earpiece out of it and pops it in her ear, then shakes it. “Hey,” she says, and mouths _Liam_ to Zayn. “What’s up?”

Zayn nods and turns his attention back to his show.

“Hey,” Liam says. “Er, so, your dad has pneumonia, and we’re at hospital, right now.”

“Shit,” Mia says, her heart dropping. “What, is it bad?”

“Sort of. He coughed up some blood, which is why I brought him.”

“Jesus!”

“I know, but it sounds worse than it is, apparently.”

She can hear Louis in the background yelling, “Yeah! An’ now I ‘ave to spend the night in the stupid hospital, ‘cos ‘e dragged me here!”

“Anyway,” Liam says, ignoring him, “they checked him out, and now they’ve got him on an IV of fluids, and antibiotics, and he’s doin’ better. We’re going to stay overnight, though, as you might have heard him yell.”

“Yeah, sounds like that’s best. I’ll come home tomorrow, okay?”

Zayn lifts his eyebrows at her.

“Oh, no, Mims, don’t,” Liam says. “You don’t have to. Enjoy your time off, everything’s alright here.”

“No, it’s fine, seriously. I’ll get a flight home for tomorrow. Did you tell Sunday?”

Zayn mouths _what?_ at her. She waves at him in the universal signal for ‘don’t worry about it.’

Liam hesitates. “No, I don’t want her to feel like she’s got to rush home.”

“Liam… come on. If you don’t tell her, I will.”

“Alright,” he relents. “Christ, you drive a hard bargain.”

“Put me on the phone with him?”

There’s some commotion and rustling of sheets, and then Mia hears Louis say, “Seriously, I’m fucking fine, Payno’s just lost his mind.”

Mia’s relieved to hear his voice. She wraps her arms around herself as a cool breeze blows in off of the ocean. “Good, but I’m still coming home.”

“Fine, if you insist, but I’m only alright with that ‘cos Evan’s gonna need help with April, ‘cos I’ve been imprisoned in me fuckin’ bed for a week by this incompetent doctor.”

“HE’S AN EXCELLENT DOCTOR,” Liam shouts in the background.

“Whatever,” Louis says in annoyance, but Mia knows he secretly loves it when Liam is this worried about him. “How was your night? Did you have fun with Aya?”

“Yeah,” Mia says, smiling to herself. “A lot of fun, actually.”

“Fantastic. Love to hear it. Listen, let me go, I have to eat all my pudding or everyone will get angry at me.”

She laughs. “Alright, we’ll talk tomorrow.”

“Love you, sweetie.”

“Love you, Dad. Get some sleep.”

Liam takes the phone back and says, “I’ll text you if I’ve got any updates.”

“Thanks, Liam. You get some sleep, too.”

“I’ll try,” he says, laughing.

Mia hangs up with them and turns to Zayn. “Dad has pneumonia, coughed up blood, he’s in the hospital now, but apparently he’s fine?”

“Jesus,” Zayn says, looking alarmed. “I always worry about that. It’s the fuckin’ smoking, you know, it’s gonna do us in, me and him both.”

Mia thinks of her Katarina-induced cigarettes. “Yeah. I wish you guys weren’t fighting.”

“Who, me and Louis? We’re always fighting about something, don’t worry about it. Means nothin’. I’ll call him tomorrow and check on him.” Zayn exhales in a fatherly way. “It’s just this Amir shit… it’s difficult.”

Mia nods.

“Your dad and Harry both can’t quite, er, let things be, sometimes,” Zayn says. “Fuck am I going to tell that kid that he doesn’t already know? He knows, love. He ain’t stayin’ away ‘cos he’s confused about what everyone wants him to do. He couldn’t handle being here, the way things were, so he split. He’ll come back when he realizes he can’t get away from himself.”

“Wherever you go, there you are,” Mia says, and Zayn nods. That’s a classic AA line. “Dad texted me earlier that he might have been kicked off the tour. Where’s he gonna go, d’you think?”

Zayn hesitates. “You asking where I’d go, if I was him?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, let’s see. When I left that band, I went to my parents’ house and holed up there. But that’s what he’s avoiding to begin with, so he probably won’t do that. Also, your dad almost immediately showed up to tell me he was pregnant wiv you, so that only lasted me like a month anyway.”

Mia snorts at this. “You don’t think Amir would come here?”

“No idea. Maybe? Less pressure than showin’ up at Louis’ place. Think he’d probably go stay with a friend, though, try to regroup there.”

“Right,” Mia says, and falls quiet. “I just miss him.”

“I know,” Zayn says. The light is still flickering on his face. “I do too.”

They don’t say anything for a long moment.

“I watch videos of his shows sometimes,” Zayn says. “When I can’t sleep.”

Mia looks at him, but he doesn’t meet her eyes. He stares out over the pool, then brings his hand to his mouth and rubs at his scruff.

“He’s got a lovely voice,” he mutters. “Gets in my heart, like Louis’ does… but his songs are so fuckin’ sad. I can barely be sure what they’re about, and they’re still sad.”

Mia nods. She knows what he means. One of his songs has a verse that’s just Amir mournfully wailing _‘And I can’t go back to you’_ in his soulful voice, over and over; listening to it feels like being punched in the chest. She can’t imagine how Evan feels about it. He avoids Amir’s music the way one would avoid an electric fence.

“He sounds like you, too,” Mia says, because she knows Zayn likes to hear this. “Lots of raw talent.”

Zayn nods and sips his seltzer. “Wasted,” he says.

Mia sighs. “Not yet. You can’t say it’s wasted, yet.”

“I know. Y’know, when I was his age and people said that shit about me, it drove me up a wall, and now I’m saying it about him... but it’s only ‘cos I know how hard it is to dig yourself out of the sort of hole he’s in.”

“If you can do it, he can too.”

“Dunno if I ever dug myself a hole quite this deep,” Zayn murmurs.

Mia nods, then furrows her brow. “Wait, not even when —?”

“Shh,” Zayn says, lifting his finger to his lips. “Shh, shh.”

“But Dad, you —“

“Be respectful of your father, please.”

Mia starts laughing, and Zayn does too. She turns and lies down against the chaise, and Zayn unpauses his TV show.

SACRAMENTO, JULY 11, 2042

Liam waits until Louis has fallen asleep to make the call. He looks small and fragile, lying there with his face resting on his hospital band-clad wrist. Liam pets his hair and makes sure he’s still breathing before slipping into the bathroom of his private hospital suite.

His heart speeds up as he taps at his watch, but he calms himself with the reminder that Amir isn’t going to pick up, anyway. He’ll just leave a voicemail, which Amir will probably not even respond to, so it’s fine. This is just a courtesy.

The phone rings and rings. Liam stares at himself in the bathroom mirror as it does, drumming his fingers on the sink. Just when he thinks the voicemail is about to pick up, he hears Amir’s voice, like the voice of a ghost: “Hello?”

Liam starts. “Hello?”

Amir clears his throat. “Yeah? What’s up?”

Liam is so stunned, he forgets why he was calling.

“Liam, you called _me_ ,” Amir says, after a moment.

“Uh, yeah,” Liam says, deepening his voice, trying to regain some authority. “Your dad’s in hospital. He’s got pretty bad pneumonia. They think he’ll be alright, they’re treating him with antibiotics and he’s resting now, but he was coughing up blood earlier.”

Amir is silent.

“Just letting you know,” Liam says.

“Thanks,” Amir says. He doesn’t sound strung out in the way that Liam would expect him to. “What kind of pneumonia?”

“What d’you mean?”

“There are different kinds of pneumonia,” Amir says impatiently.

Liam’s temper flares. He can normally laugh off Amir thinking he’s stupid, but not right now. “I know there are different kinds of pneumonia! Why d’you want to know?”

“I’m just asking!”

“It’s bacterial,” Liam says. He can’t resist adding, “That’s why they’re giving him antibiotics.”

“Oh. Right.” Amir is quiet. “How… uh… how long is he gonna be in the hospital?”

“They think he can leave tomorrow,” Liam says, eyeing himself in the mirror. Christ, he looks old. Does he usually look this old, or is it just the fluorescent lights and emotional distress? He shakes his head at himself. “One more night, at the latest. So, have you been kicked off your tour, then?”

“I’m not discussing that with you,” Amir says, his tone souring.

“Yeah, fuck me, right? Only been your stepdad for twenty years.”

“I didn’t say fuck you! I said I don’t want to talk about it!”

Liam winces; that was an unforced error on his part. “I’m just asking so I can prepare your parents and your husband for the media barrage they’re gonna get if you’ve been kicked off,” he says, walking it back. “That’s all.”

Amir goes quiet again, then sighs in annoyance. “Yeah, I’m off the tour.”

“Okay,” Liam says. “Thanks.”

“Yeah. Anything else?”

“Nope, that’s all I had to tell you.”

“Okay,” Amir says. “Bye.” He hangs up.

Liam is torn between being worried about him and wanting to whack him. He splashes some cold water on his face before returning to Louis’ bedside.

SEVILLE, JULY 12, 2042

Amir checks the time after he hangs up with Liam: it’s 3 in the morning. He should probably think about getting to bed, but he crashed for a few hours after Jya left his hotel room, and he isn’t tired again yet.

He walks back into his room from the bathroom, where he had taken the call, and finds Frankie has opened the door to his balcony and is out there smoking a blunt, while three tour hanger-ons, Alexis, Neve, and Joshua, sit giggling on the floor by the TV.

“I’m flying back to the states,” he announces to no one in particular.

Frankie turns from the balcony railing. “What? Why?”

The hanger-ons stop giggling and look up at Amir.

“No, stay here,” Alexis says. “Party with us.”

“No thanks,” Amir says breezily.

“Amir, look,” Frankie says, blowing out a lungful of smoke. “Jya was just overreacting. Give her a few days, I’ll talk to her.”

“Nah, it wasn’t like that.”

“No, seriously, you don’t know her like I do. We’ve known each other for years, how do you think I got this gig?”

Amir feels guilty; Frankie’s only in denial because Amir losing this job puts him out of a job, too. Jya has a full backing band of her own, and she doesn’t need a sax player. “It’s over, bro.”

“Nah, nah, come on, man…”

“It’s done. I’m going back. I need to figure out, like…” He trails off. He wants to talk things out with Zayn, and he wants to see Louis and April. Beyond that, he’s not really sure what the fuck he’s doing.

“I just need to go,” he says. Withdrawing from coke is making him very impatient, and has absolutely wrecked his attention span. “You guys can do whatever you want, but I’m booking a flight.”

Amir goes back into the bathroom and locks himself in there with his phone, logging onto Expedia and attempting time zone math despite his headache. Okay, he can leave tomorrow afternoon and get to L.A. while it’s still the afternoon over there. Fine. He buys the tickets without even thinking about it. He never checks his bank account before making a purchase, and he knows one of these days his card is going to get declined, but not today. His luck holds out.

Someone is banging on the door. “Meer,” Joshua yells. “Do you have any more molly?”

“No,” Amir shouts back in annoyance. “Can you guys get out of here? I want to go to bed.”

He probably won’t be able to sleep, he’s still shaking uncontrollably and getting chills, but he wants to be alone, at the very least.

Amir breathes a sigh of relief as he hears footsteps, followed by his hotel room door starting to close repeatedly.

“Bye, asshole,” Frankie yells through the bathroom door. “Thanks for nothing.”

The hotel room door swings shut a final time, and then there’s blissful silence. He sits there for a few more minutes, trying to get the tremors in his thighs under control before getting up from the edge of the tub. He goes into his room, which is pretty much trashed, and starts to clean up and pack while blasting his oldies playlist. It’s a lot of Weezer, Eagles, Arctic Monkeys, Green Day, Ramones, Danny Brown, Lil Peep — songs his dads love, so it pisses him off to listen to them, but it’s an invigorating kind of pissed off. And all of it is very relatable to him, right now. The Ramones said it best, he wants to be sedated.

“ _Like father, stepfather, the son is drowning in the flood_ ,” Rivers Cuomo howls at him from his Bluetooth speaker.

Amir whips a pair of underwear into his suitcase, ignoring the stabbing pain that radiates through his ulnar nerve.

SACRAMENTO, JULY 12, 2042

Mia has only been back at the house for about ten minutes when the front door chimes to let her know that Sunday has arrived. She runs from the kitchen into the foyer, where Sunday is standing, looking weatherbeaten and exhausted, though as beautiful and statuesque as ever.

Mia runs for her and tackles her into a hug. “Jesus! Hi! I just got here.”

“Hi,” Sunday says, squeezing her hard. “How’s Louis?”

“He’s fine. They sent him home this morning, he’s just been bitching about being stuck in bed. Your dad is literally standing guard over him.”

Sunday starts laughing. “Where are the boys?”

“Liam sent them to the farmer’s market to pick up corn and shit like that,” Mia says. “So they’re probably out in a field somewhere tipping cows.” She lets go of her. “We can go see Dad, if you want. He’ll be thrilled. Except he’ll also be mad at you for coming home just ‘cos of him.”

“It’s fine,” Sunday says, taking her sunglasses off her head and shaking out her hair. “I’d been meaning to take a few days off to come see you guys, anyway. I’ve been having nightmares about dressage judges on, like, a nightly basis.”

“What’s the soccer equivalent to that?” Mia says, leading her upstairs.

“I don’t think there is one. Maybe a mean ref?”

“So how are you? How’s life on the road, how's your horse, how’s Julio?”

“Life on the road is the same as always,” Sunday says. “Julio’s good, Ulysses is good. I know I keep saying this, but we’re all just really focused on getting me qualified, right now, so everything’s kind of intense all the time. How are you? How’s the team, and Katarina?”

“Uhh… let’s not get into that right now.”

“That doesn’t sound like good news,” Sunday says.

Mia flashes a smile at her, then knocks on Louis and Liam’s bedroom door.

Liam calls, “Come in.” She opens the door and sees Liam in an easy chair beside the bed, his feet up in an ottoman, while Louis hangs out in the bed, watching April and Goose play on top of the duvet. The room is filled with flowers, cards and balloons, as well as breakfast takeout from a diner that Oli had sent to them.

“Hey,” Louis says, glancing up. His face lights up when he notices Sunday. “Oi! You! Why’d you come home?”

Sunday goes to him and leans over to give him a hug.

“She’s having dressage judge nightmares,” Mia says, by way of explanation.

“I have those sometimes too,” Liam says quietly.

Louis laughs at him.

“Those judges are scary!”

“How are you?” Sunday says to Louis. “You resting?” Her stern voice sounds exactly like Liam’s.

“I’m fine,” Louis says, rolling his eyes. “Everyone has lost their minds.”

“You coughed up blood,” Liam mutters, peering mutinously at him over the copy of _Sports Illustrated_ he’s reading.

“You did?” Sunday says, sounding worried.

“Well, aye, I’ve got pneumonia!”

April notices Sunday’s presence and disengages from Goose, standing up on the bed and holding her arms up to her. April, much like Max at this age, remembers every single family member and is unafraid to ask for attention from any of them.

“Hi,” Sunday says, picking April up sort of awkwardly. She isn’t great with kids. “Hi April.”

“Hi,” April chirps.

“Hey, she says hi now,” Sunday says to no one in particular.

“She’s catching up fast,” Louis says, sounding proud.

Sunday nods. “And, uh… where is her daddy?” she says delicately.

“Which one?” Mia says. “Evan, or Asshole? Evan’s at work. Asshole is God knows where.”

“Mia’s properly committed to making sure ‘asshole’ is April’s first swear,” Louis says, shooting her a look.

“If the shoe fits,” Mia says, “I’m gonna put it up Amir’s ass.”

Sunday snorts. “So nothing has changed, I take it.”

“Well,” Liam says, and he and Louis exchange a look.

“He’s officially been kicked off his tour,” Louis says. “Liam found that out last night, when he was making unsolicited phone calls to inform everyone we know that I’ve succumbed to pneumonia.”

“I called like, ten people!”

Louis spreads his arms to emphasize the room being filled with flowers.

“I can’t help it you’re beloved!” Liam exclaims. “That’s not on me!”

Sunday looks like she’s struggling to handle April, who’s getting wriggly, so Mia comes over and takes her. Sunday looks deeply relieved. “So if he’s off the tour, what does that mean?” she says.

“No idea,” Louis says, shrugging.

Sunday shoots a glance at Mia.

“Pops seems to think he won’t come home,” Mia says. “He thinks he’ll go hole up with a friend.”

“What friend?” Sunday says. “I saw he told Jason to go fuck himself.”

“Sunday,” Liam says, sounding shocked. Sunday is usually more demure. “The baby...”

“Sorry. I saw he told Jason to, uh, go pound sand.”

Mia laughs. “Yeah, he did. He has a lot of friends, though, but I think you have a point — he’s not going to be able to put up with anyone who doesn’t know him well, right now, but anyone who does know him well is going to call him out on his shit, which he also doesn’t want.”

“Has anyone talked to him?” Sunday says, looking around. “Can’t we just ask him to come home?”

“Yeah, Liam actually got him on the phone last night,” Mia says.

Liam nods, avoiding Louis’ gaze as if he feels guilty about this. “That’s how I found out about the tour. It was a brief chat, though, and a little tense. I wasn’t gonna start begging him to do anything. Let’s not stress Tommo about this, his heart rate is supposed to stay down.”

“Oh, my God,” Louis says, rolling his eyes again. Goose approaches him and curls up on his lap, and Louis starts petting him, stroking his silky ears. “This is not making me heart rate spike, I promise. I’m not made of glass.”

“I didn’t mean to bring it up,” Sunday says. “Sorry. Just curious.”

“Naturally,” Louis says, sounding very reasonable about the whole thing.

April starts pulling on Mia’s hair. “Stop,” Mia tells her. April pouts, which doesn’t have the intended effect, because her pouty face is very reminiscent of Amir’s. “No, I’m serious, don’t do that.”

“Use the baby voice with the baby,” Louis says, seeming to have picked up on Mia’s resentful tone.

Mia looks at April and realizes she looks upset. “Sorry,” she says, giving her a kiss on the forehead. “I’m not actually mad.”

MALIBU, JULY 12, 2042

Marlena and Toni are old enough to be going to boy-girl parties, apparently. Zayn didn’t think so, but Harry overruled him.

“I trust Hazel and Lyla’s parents,” Harry told him, when the girls first asked for permission. “We’ve known them for years, and they said they’ll be upstairs the whole night.”

“Since when has that stopped anything untoward happening at a party?” Zayn said.

“Yeah, but if we don’t let them get experienced in these situations, they’ll be sheltered and won’t know how to make good choices later on.”

Zayn still doesn’t like it, but he realizes he’s outnumbered 3-to-1 on this and might as well give in, considering Harry is already unhappy with him.

The unhappiness is about Amir, but it’s not, really — it’s about Louis, because Harry has a fixation on him that is never going to go away. Harry wants Zayn all to himself, and Louis marrying him first and bearing his children prevented that; he wanted to make Amir in his image, the talented star of a son that he never got to have, and Louis continually works to thwart that; he wants to rid himself of the shadow of 18-year-old Louis that lives in his head and whispers ‘ _Liar’_ to him when he’s being disingenuous, but he never can. All of this is somehow Zayn’s fault, of course.

And both Louis and Harry have this reproachful attitude toward him these days, like he’s meant to go track down Amir and drag him home, so neither of them have to feel guilty about it anymore.

This is not Zayn’s job, nor is it in his power, but he’s The Man here, or something, despite that they’re all men. But he spermed Amir into existence, and Amir looks like him, and is acting like him in the worst possible ways (which is really making him look bad, and unfairly so, considering he got his act together many years ago). On some instinctive level, Harry and Louis both feel like getting Amir in line is his duty, and he needs to step in somehow.

The trouble is Zayn has no idea how to do that. He’s tried to contact Amir, but he knows how annoyed he used to get when he was doing badly and people reached out to him under the guise of affection, when their real motive was to get his behavior under control. So he limits what he says to him, and is careful of how he says it. It’s sort of pathetic, but he doesn’t want Amir thinking he’s annoying. The kid is 25 — he’s more than old enough to never talk to Zayn again, if he doesn’t want to.

And a lot of this is Harry projecting, anyway, because he’s been gone again recently, so he feels like a shit dad, and he was the one who left the door open for Jeff to walk in and steal Amir in the first place. Ergo, he has to pin the responsibility on Zayn to absolve himself of his own guilt.

Because Zayn can do nothing about Amir, he tries to avoid fighting with Harry about anything else, simply to keep the peace. Which is why Marlena and Toni get to go to a boy-girl party, even though Zayn knows that just the thought of this is going to be enough to keep him up all night with heartburn.

He has to put his foot down a little, though, when he spots Marlena and Toni walking past the living room on their way out, and notices Marlena is in a crop top.

“Oi,” Zayn hollers. “Where d’you think you’re going?”

Marlena and Toni come over to the living room entrance and look blankly at him.

“The party?” Toni says.

“With your stomach exposed?” Zayn says, pointing to Marlena, who looks down. “No.”

“Dad,” she says, laughing. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Go change.”

“Daddy!” Marlena cries. “That’s not fair! My shirt has sleeves, and Toni’s doesn’t, how is that any different?”

Zayn glances at Toni, who in comparison is dressed downright boyishly in jeans and a tank top. “Stomach is different from shoulders. It’s sending a totally different message.”

Marlena rolls her eyes.

“I’m not trying to send any messages, for the record,” Toni says. “It’s just hot out.”

“What do _you_ think?” Marlena says, appealing to Harry, who’s sitting on the couch beside Zayn.

Harry looks her over. “I think that’s fine,” he says. “It’s only a bit of stomach.”

“Change,” Zayn says, giving Marlena a serious look.

She lets out a gusty sigh of annoyance, but heads back down the hall. Toni follows after her, and Zayn turns to glare murderously at Harry.

“She is _fourteen_ ,” he hisses.

“Zayn,” Harry says, laughing. “She’s not trying to leave the house in lingerie!”

“She will be in a few years, if you get your way!”

“Whatever,” he drawls. “Agree to disagree on this one. I didn’t stop you, did I?”

“You know I don’t like how relaxed you are about ‘aving her grow up so fast. You know I don’t like that you let model scouts chat her up at fashion shows, and things like that. Have you not learned your lesson from letting Jeff get his hands on Amir?”

Harry lets out a long sigh. “I don’t want to fight with you, tonight.”

“I don’t want to fight either,” Zayn says. “Just respect my wishes, here.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

*

Later in the evening, Harry goes to take a shower, and Zayn remains in bed, scrolling through Twitter and occasionally checking Life360 to make sure the girls haven’t left the house they’re supposed to be at. He’s zoning out when he notices _Amir Tomlinson-Malik_ is a trending topic.

“Oh, shit,” Zayn says aloud, his stomach dropping.

He checks his watch, but he doesn’t have any texts or missed calls. With trepidation, he clicks his son’s name, and scrolls through the corresponding Twitter Moment. In the bathroom, the shower stops.

It’s all been leaked: not just the fact that Amir was kicked off the tour, but the fact that it was due to his drug use, and worse than that, the fact that he was in the psych ward last year.

“Christ,” Zayn says, his heart aching with parental worry and anguish. It’s grotesque to see old photos of his little boy’s handsome, smiling face plastered under these headlines.

He shuts his computer and picks up his phone to text Louis. _have you seen what leaked???_

 _Of course I have,_ Louis texts back within a minute or so.

_what do we do?_

_I have PR working on it. otherwise nothing we can do, honestly_

_who would have leaked his hospitalization?_

_Anyone he told about it,_ Louis says. _So potentially anyone he’s been partying with_

Zayn doesn’t even know what to say to that. He just sets his phone aside and waits for Harry; he appears a moment later in a robe, toweling his hair dry.

“What’s wrong?” Harry says, reading his face.

Zayn shrugs, opening his laptop back up and turning it to face Harry.

Harry kneels over the bed, squinting. “Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

“Poor Amir,” Harry mutters.

“I know.”

Harry flops down on the bed next to him, rubbing his eyes. “I still haven’t even heard back from Jeff,” he says, sounding a little dazed by this, like it can’t be real.

“Jeff’s a dickhead,” Zayn says dismissively. “Where is he in all this? ‘E doesn’t care. He just wanted his money.”

“I know,” Harry says. “But can I say something that’s sort of sick and fucked up?”

“Always.”

Harry worries at his lip with his teeth before saying, “I’ve been sort of jealous of Amir, since he took him on?”

“What?” Zayn starts laughing. “In what sense?”

“Oh, just that he’s like, this bright young star, and he’s got my manager’s attention… I used to be Jeff’s special star, y’know?”

Zayn feels bad about it, but this just makes him laugh harder.

“Stop!” Harry cries. “I’m getting washed up, I know I am. I’m not cool anymore, and it’s a lot more painful than I thought it would be. I miss being young and wanted. I took it for granted.”

Zayn’s laughter trails off. “Amir’s incredibly miserable, you realize,” he points out.

“I know he is,” Harry says. “I empathize with him completely, I feel terrible, and I worry about him loads. I mean, I could have been him, at one point. I never let myself be split apart the way he is… I just sort of went for the career thing, full blast, and that was the choice I made. But if I’d tried to have both things, at that age… it’s very hard.”

“I’ve been sort of jealous of him, too,” Zayn admits.

Harry looks relieved. “Really?”

“Yeah, well, like you said, we’re getting old. And ‘e’s like, young me. It sort of freaks me out, makes me feel like a corpse or something, like I’m obsolete. Plus, he has what I never had, that performer magnetism. I always envied _you_ that, when we were younger.”

Harry laughs. “Well, I always envied you your voice.”

Zayn loves hearing this, although he tries not to show it. “I guess we’re just a pair of sick fucks, then. Thank God. I could never say this shit to Louis, he’d knock my teeth out.”

Harry’s laughter increases until he’s shaking on the bed. “He really would. He doesn’t get it, does he?”

“What, being a sick fuck? Nope.” Zayn climbs onto Harry, pressing his wrists against the bed. Harry’s eyes light up. “Wanna go for it, while we’ve got the house to ourselves?”

“Sure,” Harry purrs, and rolls over. “Oh, sorry, unless you want me to do you? We haven’t done that in a while.”

“Nah, I’ll do you.”

Zayn fetches the lube from the drawer, and they go about their usual routine. He focuses on the little sensory details: the feel of his knees on the duvet, the sound of the ocean crashing coming in from the balcony, Harry’s ropey musculature under his creamy, seemingly ageless skin.

He bends over him as he slides in, kissing up his neck, and Harry tilts his head and locks onto his eyes with one iris in a way that shoots heat up his spine.

“Fuck you,” Zayn murmurs, making Harry grin. He starts fucking him with skillful, fast strokes, and Harry lets a soft moan of pleasure escape his full lips.

*

Harry goes to bed early again, and the girls get home soon after, looking tired out but not like they’ve been interfered with or corrupted in any way. Zayn surreptitiously sniffs them for alcohol and weed as he hugs them each goodnight, and doesn’t smell any.

He takes a seltzer out on the patio and watches dumb TV on the projector, as has become his nightly custom with himself. It’s 11:16 when his watch dings, letting him know someone is at the door.

It’s Amir. Amir is at the door.

Zayn’s heart stops as he stares at the small screen glowing on his wrist, prickly heat shooting up the back of his neck. The warm night air around him suddenly feels unbearably hot.

The walk across the patio and through the house to the front door is one of the longest walks of his life, probably on par with walking from backstage to onstage the first time they played Madison Square Garden.

When he opens the front door, sure enough, Amir is there. He’s trembling like he’s cold, despite the weather, and he looks scared and exhausted, like a criminal on the run. He’s still dressed in tour clothes — boots, ripped black designer jeans, and a t-shirt that probably cost 2 grand. He must not have anything else to wear, Zayn realizes.

“Hey,” Zayn says, reaching for him and pulling him inside. “You just hanging out on the stoop? We didn’t disable your access to the house, mate, we’d never do that.”

“I know,” Amir says, walking along numbly as Zayn guides him toward the living room. “I didn’t want to just walk in. I didn’t know who was up, or what the deal was.”

“Harry’s in bed, but he wouldn’t bar you from the house. He’s as worried about you as anyone else is.”

“I hit Jeff with a water bottle,” Amir admits.

Zayn laughs. That probably explains Jeff’s recent lack of communication. “Sit down,” he says, pushing him toward the living room couch. “I’m gonna go get you some food.”

“Okay,” Amir says wearily, dropping down onto the couch, still trembling.

Zayn eyes him, confused, and then he twigs. “You coming down off something?”

Amir nods without meeting his eyes.

“What, you sober?”

“Mostly,” Amir says. “I’m still taking Xans to take the edge off, and I smoked some weed, but I haven’t had any coke in days.”

“That why you’re shaking?”

“I guess.”

Zayn thinks about this. “Maybe you need potassium,” he says. “I’ll bring you a banana.”

Amir lets out a weak laugh. “Okay.”

Zayn hurries into the kitchen, paranoid that Amir will disappear before he gets back if he takes too long. As he’s piling things onto a tray, it occurs to him: Amir came to him first. Not Louis. _Him._ He must not have fucked up too badly with their kids, after all.

He’s actually chuffed about this as he brings the tray back to Amir and sets it on the coffee table in front of him. Amir stares at it. Zayn brought him graham crackers, a banana, several bottles of water, and a bowl of cut-up pineapple.

“You don’t have to jump right in,” Zayn says, because he seems overwhelmed. He sits down next to him.

“I didn’t think you’d be this nice to me,” Amir says. “I thought you were gonna yell at me.”

“Why would you think that?”

“‘Cos all everyone does is yell at me.”

“I think you’ve been doing a bit of yelling, yourself,” Zayn says, and Amir lets out a breathy laugh. “Why’d you come home, if you were scared of that?”

Amir looks at the floor for a long moment, looking like he’s working hard to form words. “Liam called me,” he finally says. “About Dad being in the hospital.”

Shit, it’s about Louis after all. Of course. It’s always about Louis, Zayn was a fool for even trying to compete. Still, though, this stings a bit.

“And I’d been kicked off my tour, so.” Amir shrugs. “I dunno. I wanted to see him, and you. And I need to see April. I just really don’t want to deal with any of the other shit.”

“I know,” Zayn says.

Amir points at the tray. “Are those graham crackers?”

“Yeah. You like those, right? Or you did, when you were a kid...”

Amir nods, and his chin starts to wobble. Tears gather in his eyes before falling. “Yeah,” he says, and sinks into the couch cushion like he’s lost all strength. His eyelashes fan over his cheeks, trailing shiny teardrops. “God, Dad. What the fuck happened?”

Zayn reaches out and rubs his shoulder. “Bipolar disorder. And drugs.”

Amir starts laughing through his tears.

“Show business doesn’t help, either.”

“No,” Amir says raggedly.

“When did you get to L.A.?” Zayn says.

“Hours ago,” Amir says, adjusting his septum piercing before sniffling. Zayn hands him a tissue. “I rented a car and was just driving through the hills… I drove to where our house used to be, in Calabasas, and I just hung out there for a while. I didn’t want to come here ‘til I figured Harry would be in bed.”

“He’s not angry with you.”

“I know. I’m angry at him, though.”

“Oh, right.”

Amir starts eating the graham crackers.

Zayn takes a deep breath. “Look, just to head that conversation off — we didn’t mean to drive you away, none of us. We just knew that going on tour wasn’t what was best for you, and at risk of, like, ‘I told you so’, we did tell you.”

“I know,” Amir mutters. “It’s not about that. It’s not even about you guys being right, obviously you were. It’s about how I felt.”

“How did you feel?”

Amir shrugs, then shudders. Zayn grabs a blanket and wraps it around his shoulders.

“I felt… I _feel_ …” He leans forward and picks up a water bottle, uncaps it, and drinks almost half of it, crushing it in his fist.

“Relax, Youngboy,” Zayn says. “I’m not gonna take it off you.”

“It’s just I’m shaky, I keep dropping stuff.”

“You can drop some water, I don’t care.”

“I feel like you guys all think I’m a fucked-up, crazy freak who’s not fit to parent my own kid,” Amir says, his voice getting sharp and a little loud. Zayn puts a hand on his shoulder, not wanting him to wake the girls. “I feel like you left me to rot in the psych ward —”

“Hey, we weren’t even allowed to see you for weeks,” Zayn interrupts. “Are you kidding me? Me and Louis were going nuts, we were threatening to sue people right and left. Harry and Liam, too. We were terrified, alright? We knew nothing. We had no idea why you did… what you did.”

“Neither do I!” Amir shouts at him.

“It’s not our fault, Amir! I’m sorry it happened, it’s a fuckin’ nightmare, but it’s not our fault!”

“You didn’t help me, after I got home,” Amir accuses, tears streaming down his face. “You were all more worried about making sure I didn’t hurt April than you were about making sure I was okay.”

“That just ain’t true. I get that’s how you feel, but Amir, you’re my son. I love April, but you’re always my priority. I made that very clear to you.”

“Yeah, this isn’t as much about you,” Amir mutters, wiping his cheeks. “It’s more about Dad, and Mia, and Evan.”

“Louis was so worried about you, love. He loves you more than anything,” Zayn says, his heart aching. “So does Yasmeen. And your… y’know, Evan’s mad for you. They just didn’t know what to do, none of us did, and they felt like they had to protect the baby.”

“I never wanted to hurt her.”

“I know! We know that! We never thought you did! Louis said it straightaway, when we found out, he said you must’ve had a break with reality. ‘Amir would never try to hurt her, never, he couldn’t’ve been in his right mind.’ He was dead sure of it.”

Amir’s quiet. “He never told me that.”

“He probably didn’t want to bring it up,” Zayn says. “Look, can you really blame them for being nervous? They weren’t just nervous about her after what happened, y’know… they were scared of losing you, too. That’s why these past six months’ve been absolute hell on them, ‘cos they had to live that fear all over again, every day, and they couldn’t talk to you.”

Amir tugs the blanket harder around himself, burrowing in between the couch cushions like he’s trying to stop his tremors. “It h — hasn’t exactly been a fun time for me, either.”

“I know, kid, but you always knew we were here if you needed us. You could’ve rung one of us anytime, and we would’ve answered. But for us, y’know… we all knew there was a decent chance you might not come back from that tour alive.”

Amir looks more tired than Zayn has ever seen him look. He looks tired in a way a twenty-five year old shouldn’t look tired. “I didn’t know you were here, not really,” he says. “I thought you all hated me. The longer I stayed away, the more sure I was you all hated me.”

“Angry wiv you? Yes. Hate you? No. No one hates you. I’ve never known anyone to hate you. You’re a very lovable kid.”

Amir lets out a tearful laugh.

“You realize, though, how much damage you’ve done here?” Zayn says. “How much work it’s gonna take to fix all this?”

“Duh,” Amir mutters. “Why do you think I’ve been gone for six months?”

Zayn cracks up. “At least I never have to wonder whose son you are,” he says.

Amir laughs, too, then they’re quiet for a moment.

“Did you see, er…” Zayn pauses, playing with the fringe on a couch cushion. “TMZ’s latest?”

“Of course,” Amir says. “I’ve been getting calls all night, I took my watch off.”

“You okay?”

Amir shrugs. “I’m just numb to it, at this point.”

“They’re vultures.”

“It gets them clicks. As long as they don’t find out _why_ I was in the psych ward, I don’t even care if everyone knows I went… maybe it’ll get them to stop talking about what a piece of shit I am all the time.” Amir falls quiet again, then hiccups. “I think I want to go to sleep.”

“Okay.”

Amir looks up at him, looking like a little boy. “Can I fix it?” he says.

Zayn nods. “You’re gonna have to get clean, and stay clean. You’re gonna have to get help, and let people help you. You’re gonna have to be okay with being frustrated. You have to let us in.”

“I know,” Amir says, and his eyes fill with tears again. “I just want my baby back,” he chokes out. “I miss her so much.”

“I know. I know.”

“I feel like everyone’s gonna keep her away from me even more, now…”

“Nah, it’s just gonna take time to put things right, kiddo. You’ll have to earn back their trust. Look, people only get angry when they love you. When they’re done with you, when they don’t even bother getting angry anymore, that’s when you know they don’t love you. If they’re just angry, you can still fix it.”

“Yeah,” Amir murmurs. “But what about when you’re angry at them back?”

“Even better. Then you get to fight, and talk about it for hours and hours and hours, and go to therapy, maybe.”

Amir laughs. “Great, more therapy.”

Zayn strokes his hair. “Get some sleep. I’ll go get you pillows. You need pajamas?”

Amir nods. “Thanks,” he says.

Zayn gets up and moves down the couch to wrap him in a hug, holding him tight, so tight he’s crushing him a little. “Don’t ever disappear like that again,” he says emotionally. “You at least pick up the phone to us, alright? Even if you want to kill us, you just pick up the fookin’ phone and let us know you’re alright.”

“Okay,” Amir says, sniffling more and hugging him back. “Okay.”

SACRAMENTO, JULY 12, 2042

By the time Evan gets home at ten, the house is quiet, and his baby monitor app tells him that April is down and sleeping soundly. He lets himself in and then arms the security system for the night, heading upstairs as quietly as he can. He hears the sound of a television and laughter coming from Patrick’s room — normally he’d go and hang out with the twins for a while before bed, but tonight he’s not in the mood.

When he passes Louis and Liam’s room, the door is cracked, and he hears Louis call out his name in a raspy voice.

Evan peeks his head in the door. “Yeah?”

“Hey,” Louis says. He’s alone, but Evan can hear the shower going in their en-suite, so he assumes that’s where Liam is. He’s barely left Louis’ side since they got home from the hospital. “Did you see the, er… TMZ?”

“I did,” Evan says, leaning on his doorway. He steels himself against the pain in his heart; he’s getting better at that.

Louis nods. His face is lit by a lamp on the bedside table, and the moon pouring in through the window, but Evan is aware that he himself is cloaked in shadow. “Has anyone been bothering you?”

“Yeah. I’ve been getting calls from random numbers… I haven’t picked any up.”

“Good. Don’t.”

“Is that reporters, you think?”

“I’d have to assume,” Louis says.

Evan nods. “My sister called me again, too.”

“Yeah?”

“I didn’t pick that one up, either.”

“She’s probably worried,” Louis says kindly.

“She’s just being nosy,” Evan says. The only Stewart he talks to anymore is his mother, but he’s careful not to tell her too much, since she’s still very much under his father’s thumb and reports back to him. She hasn’t even met April yet, though he sends her pictures.

“Evan…”

“What?”

“You’re too young to be so cynical,” Louis says, looking sad.

Evan shrugs, hunching his shoulders protectively without thinking about it. He feels adrift; not tired enough to go to bed, but he doesn’t want to be awake, either. Everything gets so much worse at night, and being out here in the countryside makes him feel like he’s teetering on the edge of the known universe.

“Do you think he’s okay?” he says. “Wherever he is?”

Louis hesitates, then nods. “I think he’s as okay as he can be right now,” he says.

“What makes you say that?”

“Just a feeling I have.”

Evan’s mouth is dry; he wets his lips. “You think he’ll come home?”

Louis shrugs.

Evan nods, looking down at his feet. “How are you feeling?”

“Much better, actually.” Louis smiles. “My girls came home.”

“Yeah, I noticed the Audi in the driveway.”

“I’d say you should go say hi to Sunday, but she’s already asleep. She’s like a little old grandma, that one. Mia’s with the boys, I think, though. If you want some company.”

“I dunno if I can do company right now,” Evan says, clearing his throat.

“You know, they won’t hold it against you if you just want to lie on the floor next to them, to be near people,” Louis says. “Paddy might take the piss, but he doesn’t mean anything by it.”

That actually does sound kind of nice.

“How was your Saturday shift?” Louis says.

“It was good,” Evan says.

He feels bad every time he agrees to work a weekend day and leaves Louis to care for April, but he needs a lot of long days full of mind-numbing, backbreaking physical labor in the great outdoors just to stay functional right now. He should probably be on antidepressants, or something, but he was raised Protestant, so he works 60-hour weeks instead.

“Good. Oi, would you be totally opposed to getting me a Coke from downstairs?”

Evan laughs. “Is that okay for you to have? Like, the bubbles and everything?”

“I’m supposed to be drinking loads of fluids,” Louis says, yawning. “They never said it couldn’t be soda.”

“Alright, I got you.”

“Thanks, mate.”

Once he’s in the kitchen, Evan realizes he forgot to eat dinner, so he heats up leftovers of something Liam made the other day. He leans his elbows on the counter as the microwave hums along, and against his better judgement, he flicks his watch display down and Googles his husband’s name.

Some of the coverage is sympathetic, and a lot of the comments are, but so much of it is just sensationalist. People who loved Amir a year ago seem downright horny to tear him down now, as if it brings them great pleasure to see him suffer, like he’s wronged them personally by being born rich, famous and talented.

Evan scrolls until he hits an article speculating about the status of his relationship with Amir. It includes a pap photo of them together in New Orleans, kissing on a corner of Bourbon Street under a street light. Evan checks the date: August 20, 2040. Amir was four months pregnant with April by then, though you can’t tell in the photo.

They were incredibly happy in New Orleans. Amir’s music was going really well, and Evan was helping out with a restoration project in the Delta, but they were both only committed to work for about twenty hours a week. The rest of the time was theirs to explore, and talk, and enjoy each other. On the weekends, Amir played the piano all day, making beautiful music fill the loft they were renting in a former warehouse. They ate delicious food and wandered the streets at night, meeting jazz players who told crazy stories that made Amir’s face light up. They spent hours in bed having lazy sex in the sunshine, their fingers intertwined.

They didn’t start trying for a baby, but they weren’t being very careful, either. Without discussing it, they both seemed to have come to the agreement that if it happened, it happened.

And it did happen, after a few months there. Evan came home with breakfast one Sunday morning and found Amir at their kitchen table, reading the newspaper. He wordlessly handed something to Evan, who took it without even realizing what it was, and looked down to see a positive pregnancy test in his hand.

When he looked up at Amir, Amir was beaming. “Oops,” he said, with a twinkle in his eye.

The microwave beeps. Evan flicks his watch display away and lets out a heavy sigh.

*

Louis is just drifting off to sleep when Zayn calls.

He blinks blearily at his watch screen in the darkness, then fumbles for his earpiece on the bedside table and jams it in his ear. “What?” he says.

“Hey,” Zayn says, sounding excited. “Amir is here.”

“What? Where?”

“At our house! He showed up, like, a half hour ago. He’s asleep in the living room now.”

Louis sits bolt upright in bed, which causes a stabbing pain in his chest that he has to wince past. “You serious?”

“No, Lou, I’m fuckin’ with you, I thought that would be a funny joke. Yes, I’m serious!”

Louis is at a loss for words. Beside him, Liam is stirring, and yawns cutely.

“Why?” he finally says. “Why’d he come there?”

“What, instead of to you?” Zayn says drily.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You were thinking it. Don’t worry, he came home ‘cos of your pneumonia, he told me. But I think he sorta feels like your place is enemy territory, right now. He didn’t even want to run into Harry, he said he waited until he thought everyone but me would be asleep to come to my place.”

Louis’ heart is aching. “Does he seem alright?”

“Well, yeah, but no. He’s been off coke for days, he told me, but he’s got bad withdrawals, I think. And he’s sort of veering between being apologetic and still being furious at all of us.”

“Sounds about right,” Louis mutters, running his hand through his hair.

“What does?” Liam says, yawning again.

“Nothing, lovey. Go back to sleep, I’ll tell you in the morning.”

He’d tell him now, but Liam has been sleeping like shit lately, and this would wake him fully and keep him up for hours.

“Okay,” Liam agrees, and rolls over, going immediately back to sleep.

“But he said he wants to see you, and he really wants to see April. That was the big thing. And listen…” Zayn hesitates. “I know you ‘ave to sort of thread the needle, with that, ‘cos you have to protect the baby, but if he comes back, you have to let him be a dad to her. You can’t, y’know, be judging him and acting like he’s not a fit parent.”

“He’s not, right now,” Louis mutters.

“I know, but he’s absolutely raging about that, and I think that’s really why he left in the first place.”

“I know it is,” Louis says thinly. “I know my son. And it’s not up to me, either, it’s up to Evan. If Evan was to take this to court tomorrow, he’d be well within his rights to demand full legal and physical custody in a split, and he could take April away from all of us, which is something I’m tryin’ to avoid.”

“I get all that. I’m just saying, if you don’t handle it right, you might drive him away again.”

“I can’t just give him exactly what he wants ‘cos I’m afraid to drive him away,” Louis whispers, aware of Liam stirring next to him. “Weren’t you the one accusing me of spoiling him, a few days ago? You’re full of words and not much action, mate, as usual.”

“Alright, no need to get, uh, snippy with me. I know he’s not exactly in ideal shape, right now. I told him he has to get clean.”

“Did he agree to that?”

“Sort of. I think he’s trying, I really do. You know how hard it is to quit coke cold turkey like that.”

“I do. Look, I’m not trying to be a dickhead. Thanks for calling me.”

“Of course, yeah.”

“Is he gonna…” Louis trails off.

“I dunno what his next move is,” Zayn says. “I thought I should just get some food and water in him and let him sleep, regroup tomorrow.”

“No, you’re right. That’s best.” Louis rubs at his face.

“How are you?” Zayn says. “How’s the pneumonia?”

“Better. I still feel like shit, but my pulse ox is back up. Payno checks it every hour.”

“Good, good.”

“Look, ring me in the morning, yeah? I need to think about this, and get some sleep.”

“Yeah, yeah, get some sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

They say goodbye and hang up. Louis waits until Liam is softly snoring again before getting out of bed and creeping toward the door, slipping out into the hallway.

He moves toward the sound of laughter and shit-talking coming from Patrick’s room down the hall, and eases the door open to see Patrick, Mia and Max piled onto the couch at the foot of his bed, playing Smash on the TV. Evan is lying on Patrick’s bed with a cool washcloth over his eyes. Everyone except him looks up at Louis when they hear the door open.

“Hey,” Max cries, pointing at him. “You’re supposed to be in bed.”

“I know,” Louis says. “I just wanted to let you all know, Zayn just rang me. Amir came to his house, he’s there now.”

Evan shifts on the bed, but doesn’t get up, speak, or make a facial expression.

Mia shoots Louis a wide-eyed look. “Seriously?”

He nods. She blows out a breath and starts biting her thumbnail.

Patrick looks back at the TV, trying and failing to keep the hurt and anger off his face. “Good for him,” he says. “Tell Zayn to let him know he can go ahead and walk into the ocean.”

“We’re not telling anyone to walk into the ocean,” Louis says patiently. “I dunno what’s going to happen from here, I just wanted you all to be aware.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Max says. “Please go get back in bed, now.”

“Okay, okay. Evan?”

“Yeah,” Evan mutters.

“You awake?”

“Yes.”

“You hear what I said?”

“Yep.”

“Alright, well, lemme know if you want to talk about it.”

Evan grunts.

“God, Evan, you’re so chatty,” Patrick says, starting the Smash game back up. “Don’t you ever stop talking about your feelings? Get a grip.”

They all start laughing at this, even Evan.

SACRAMENTO, JULY 13, 2042

Max sleeps in and wakes to the sound of general commotion in the kitchen, which is directly below his bedroom. He’s not used to there being so many people in the house these days, so he lies there for a moment, smiling at the ceiling, enjoying it. It reminds him of spending Christmases in England.

He does his morning routine with the fast military precision he learned in high school when he would wake up 10 minutes before he needed to leave the house for practice so he could get as much sleep as possible, then shave, brush his teeth, wash his face and get dressed in the blue darkness of the early morning. He says hello to Louis — who’s still confined to bed and is entertaining himself by playing mobile games on his phone while watching two football matches at once on different televisions — then heads downstairs.

“You’re late,” Patrick announces to him as he walks into the dining room. “No eggs left.”

“That’s fine,” Max says. “I just want toast.”

“There’s a ton of that,” Sunday mutters. She’s scrolling through her phone with her brow knitted in consternation, but Max can’t tell if that’s about Amir, or something Olympics-related. Sunday just always kind of looks like that, anyway.

April is sitting quietly in a playpen by the sliding glass doors overlooking the backyard. Max goes over to her and tousles her hair. She smiles big when she sees him.

“Don’t you usually have practice on Sundays?” Patrick says to Mia.

Mia looks up from her eggs. “Yeah.”

“Not today?”

“Uh, we did have one,” Mia says. “I’m just blowing it off.”

Sunday glances sideways at her. Max takes a seat next to Mia and grabs a plate, then toast.

“Are you quitting the team?” Liam shouts from the kitchen.

“You guys are worse than the cops,” Mia mutters, grinding pepper onto her eggs.

“You should quit the team,” Evan says. “Come hang out in the woods with me.”

“I might,” Mia says.

“You serious?” Patrick says. “You’re playing pro sports, why would you just give that up?”

“‘Cos pro sports at this level are even less glamorous than college sports, Paddy, that thing which you personally have declared unworthy of your time.”

“Yeah, but I only would’ve gone D2, D3,” Patrick says. “You played D1 for a top ten school.”

“And I’ve accepted that that was the height of my career,” Mia says. “I’m not going to the Olympics, like some people.”

“Please everybody stop saying ‘Olympics’ to me,” Sunday says nervously. “I came here so I could stop thinking about the Olympics.”

“Olympics,” Patrick teases her. “Olympics Olympics Olympics.” He’s sitting across from the three of them, next to Evan, but he’s half out of his chair, balancing it on a single leg, leaning his elbows on the table. The combined effect of this plus his frenetic energy makes you nervous just looking at him.

He’s only being this annoying because he’s terrified of the blowup that would result from Amir coming home, Max knows, so he’s cutting him slack. He hopes Mia realizes this, too — she comes down too hard on Patrick, sometimes. They’re similar, so she finds him annoying because he reminds her of the parts of herself she doesn’t like. Max starts buttering his toast.

Liam comes out of the kitchen with a heaping plate of bacon and sets it in the middle of the table. Everyone starts grabbing pieces, except for Mia, who shoots a look at Liam.

“You’re the only Muslim here, everyone else likes bacon!” he exclaims. “Sorry.”

“No end to the hate crimes,” Mia says, shaking her head.

MALIBU, JULY 13, 2042

Harry gets up too early for Amir to execute his plan of waking up before everyone else and retreating to the patio to plan his next move. His footsteps in the hall wake Amir from a light doze on the couch, and as he passes by the living room, they lock eyes.

Amir is frozen, but Harry just nods at him in a very Harry-ish way and continues on down the hallway. Amir lets out a breath and rolls over, staring at the ceiling.

He spends his morning on the patio anyway, avoiding everyone, hitting his vape. No one comes to bother him until around ten, when he hears the patio door sliding open and turns to see Toni.

“Hi,” she says.

“Hi,” Amir says, smiling at her.

He does feel guilty for being out of contact with Toni and Marlena, this past six months. They didn’t do anything to him, and he knows they look up to him and rely on him. He’s always been closer to them than Mia ever was. He just didn’t have it in him to be a big brother, this past year. He didn’t have it in him to be much of anything.

Toni doesn’t seem angry, though. She comes over and sits in the lounge chair next to him, looking out at the horizon.

“What are you gonna do?” she says after a while.

“I really don’t fucking know,” Amir admits.

Toni laughs. “You should probably go home.”

“I am home,” Amir says to her. He knows that’s manipulative of him, but he can’t help it. He wants to be on her good side.

She smiles at him. “Okay, true, but I meant go back to your husband and your baby.”

“I know.”

“Are you gonna come in and say hi to Dad? He’s acting all weird.”

“Weird how?”

“You know how he gets.” Toni widens her eyes and flattens her mouth in a dead-on impression of Harry.

Amir laughs. “Alright,” he says, steeling himself as he gets up, and taking another hit off his vape. Nicotine staves off the chills and tremors, though not for long. “Only if you escort me in, though.”

“My pleasure,” Toni says, and reaches out to link arms with him, as if she can sense that he’s not exactly steady on his feet.

Marlena, Zayn and Harry are all sitting around the dining room table when they get there, mid-morning sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows, lighting everything up with the pale tones of a Caillebotte painting.

Amir drops Toni’s arm, and Toni clears her throat. Everyone looks up.

“Amir!” Marlena says brightly. “Hi!”

“Hi Lena.”

Harry and Amir look at each other for a long moment. For some reason, it feels very important for Amir to not break his gaze or stop standing there stock-still, with perfect posture, despite the aches and shakiness that are plaguing his body. Harry’s eyes seem to bore into his soul and lay it bare in the light, examining it for chips and fractures. Amir is powerless to resist, like he’s caught in a tractor beam.

Finally, Harry releases him from this by getting up and going over to him, bringing him into a hug.

Amir buries his face in Harry’s shoulder, clinging to him. “Hey,” he says, his voice rough.

“The prodigal son,” Harry says cryptically.

Amir snorts. Of course Harry would have to say some dumb shit like that instead of ‘hello’.

“Mornin’, Amir,” Zayn says. He’s reading a book, his glasses low on his nose. “There’s fresh coffee and plenty of food in the kitchen, take whatever you want.”

Harry pats Amir hard on the back before releasing him. “Yeah, go get some food.”

“I will.”

*

Things aren’t as awkward as he expected, but by noon, Amir is really jonesing for coke, and he can’t handle being trapped in this art museum of a beach house anymore. He wants to go see April before he loses his nerve, and before he crashes and runs out of energy.

He goes into the bathroom to pop a Xanax and take a few hits off his dab pen before finding Zayn and telling him he’s heading for LAX. Zayn walks him out to his rental car.

“You sure you’re good to go up there?” Zayn says, glancing at him as they stand in the driveway, squinting against the sun.

“No,” Amir admits.

“You can stay here a few more nights, if you want.”

Amir shakes his head. “The longer I put it off, the harder it’s gonna be. Can you do me a favor, though? Can you, like, not warn Dad I’m coming?”

Zayn lets out a sigh. “Sure, but he’s gonna rip me a new arsehole over it.”

Amir shrugs. The tremors are back, and worse now; he’s hoping that the weed alleviates them. “Sorry.”

“Alright,” Zayn says. “You know best, I guess.”

“Thanks for saying that.”

“Hey, it’s your life, mate. You’re the foremost expert on your own reality.”

Amir nods, staring at his rental car. It’s true, but he doesn’t want it to be true. His reality sucks. It’s garbage. It’s not cool, or interesting, like jazz piano and the Catiline Orations. He wants to forget everything he knows about it.

But he says, “Yeah.”

SACRAMENTO, JULY 13, 2042

The day seems poised to proceed normally, at least for Max. As usual, he’s tuned into the jangled emotional states of everyone else in the house, but also as usual, he manages to coast above them, unconcerned.

As the afternoon wears on, Liam suggests they all get out of the house to go for a family hike, an idea which everyone pretends to find objectionable but agrees to suspiciously fast. The five of them wait downstairs while Liam makes sure Louis has everything he’ll need while they’re gone, and fetches April.

“Do you guys wanna get Starbs after this?” Mia says.

“Hey, you’re back in the Sac,” Patrick says, pointing an accusatory finger at her. “In the Sac, we go to Dutch Bros. Starbucks sucks.”

“I still like Starbucks,” Max says. “I like their paninis.”

“But can I go to Starbucks and get a slushie with creme de menthe in it?” Patrick says. “No, I cannot.”

“That sounds disgusting, so that’s a point for Starbucks,” Sunday says.

“Shit, I just realized I don’t have any of my good hiking shoes with me,” Mia says, looking down at her Adidas sandals in dismay. “This is gonna be rough. These are the times I wish I had a mom to borrow stuff from.”

“Borrow some of mine,” Patrick says, stretching his arms over his head and yawning.

“How big do you think her feet are?” Max says, laughing.

Patrick and Mia sidle up to each other to compare foot sizes.

“Wow, your feet are small,” Mia marvels.

Patrick pulls his foot away and hits her in the shoulder. “Not as small as yours!”

“Not _as_ small, just smaller than I thought.”

“Mims, I might have some old paddock boots in my room here,” Sunday says.

“Hmm,” Mia says, making a face. “Do the bottoms have horse poop on them?”

“It’s not _fresh_ horse poop, if they do.”

Mia wrinkles her nose at this. “Evan, do you have girl shoes in your truck?”

Evan, who appeared to be lost in thought, looks over at her. “Why would I have girl shoes in my truck?”

“I dunno, from a girl coworker or something,” Mia says.

“Oh. Nah.”

“Or from a girl,” Patrick adds. Now it’s Mia’s turn to hit him in the shoulder.

“There’s been no girls in my truck,” Evan says evenly, and a silence falls.

It’s at this most awkward of moments that the front door chimes, and before they all have time to look down at their watches and register Amir’s name flashing on the screen, Amir himself is walking in the door.

The silence becomes defeating, like the air has been muffled by nuclear fallout. Seconds pass at a glacial rate as Amir stands there in the doorway, staring at them in horror, while they stare at him in horror back.

The tension is only broken by Evan turning sharply on his heel and walking away up the stairs, almost stomping as he does it but not quite.

“What are you all doing here?” Amir cries. He looks bad, like he’s been ridden hard and put away wet. His hair is greasy, and his shirt is missing the top few buttons.

“What are _we_ doing here?” Patrick shouts at him, startling everybody. His face is bright red. “We live here! What the fuck are _you_ doing here?”

“I’m here to see my fucking father,” Amir bellows at him back, his eyes flashing.

“You mean _our_ father?”

“He was mine first!” Amir yells.

Mia physically turns away like she can’t deal with this, exhaling and putting her hands on her hips. Sunday just looks stunned.

“Okay, okay,” Max says, having seen enough. He goes to Amir and takes him by the shoulders, guiding him back out the front door. “C’mere, let’s talk for a sec.” Amir protests and struggles, but he has literally no chance against Max in a physical matchup. “Let’s just talk, dude, no big deal. We’ll just go outside for a second and talk.”

“Get off me!”

“Noo, no can do, sorry.”

The door swings shut behind them, but Amir keeps struggling, kicking up gravel as they move into the driveway. Max lets him go and puts his hands up, and Amir whips around, glaring at him.

“Dude,” Max says. “What are you _doing_?”

“I didn’t think you’d all be hanging out in the foyer!” Amir exclaims, swiping at his nose with his sleeve. “I was gonna try to go in and sneak upstairs!” He appears to be trembling a little, and one of his eyes has a burst blood vessel in it.

“Are you okay?” Max says.

“I’m fine. I got kicked off my tour, is all, and then Liam called me…”

“Yeah, we know. Are you high?”

Amir lets out a shaky laugh and puts his hands on his hips, staring up at the sky. “No, I’m actually in withdrawals, that’s how _not high_ I am. And I just really want to see my dad and my daughter. That’s all.”

“What about the rest of us?”

“You don’t want to see me,” Amir says.

“That’s not true,” Max says. “I miss you. We all miss you.”

Amir scoffs.

“I’m serious.”

“You didn’t look like you missed me when I walked in there just now,” Amir says. “Felt like I took my dick out at a funeral.”

Max laughs. “We were surprised, that’s all.”

“Yeah?” Amir’s face changes, becoming shadowed by hurt. “That why Evan walked away?”

“What do you expect him to do? You left him.”

“Is that what he’s saying happened?” An unhappy smile twists Amir’s face. “That I left him? That’s funny. You and Paddy weren’t at that insane intervention they forced on me — did he tell you guys he told me it was over between us if I went on tour? That he said he’d divorce me?”

This is such adult stuff, far beyond Max’s repertoire; he struggles with how to even respond to it. “He obviously didn’t mean that,” he says. “It’s not like he has.”

Amir turns from him, running his hands through his hair and then lacing them at the back of his head. It’s silent for a moment — just them alone with all the hedges, facing off in the summer breeze.

“Mia wouldn’t even look at me,” he says quietly.

“She was surprised! And yeah, they’re all angry, but can you blame them? What did you expect?”

Amir turns back around. “Are you?”

“Am I what?” Max says.

“Angry?”

Max shrugs. He searches his feelings, and finds he really isn’t. He rarely gets angry. “I’m frustrated with you, and worried about you. I’m not angry, I don’t think.”

“Thanks, Fox,” Amir says in a soft voice.

“Yeah, well. Listen, why don’t I go back in there and, like, organize this, and clear everyone out so you can go see Dad and April?”

Amir eyes him warily, then nods. “Okay.”

“Okay. Just one sec. Stay here.”

Max turns and jogs up to the front door, pulling it open and making sure it’s shut behind him before he turns to his siblings.

“Listen,” he says, putting his hands up, “why don’t you all just go in the other room, and I’ll bring Amir upstairs so he can see Dad, and that way we don’t have any, like, run-ins?”

“Thanks, Max, but we don’t need a fucking hostage negotiator right now,” Patrick says. “Why don’t you tell pussy boy to get in here and face us like a man?”

Mia flexes, seemingly without meaning to. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

“Okay. Maybe those of us who have a little bit of a temper, and sometimes say things they don’t mean, should try to take a few deep breaths,” Max suggests, feeling like a kindergarten teacher.

Mia and Patrick stare at him.

“Who’s that directed at?” Patrick demands.

“I mean, clearly you two,” Sunday says.

“Yeah, that wasn’t supposed to be, like, a riddle,” Max says. “Also, pussy boy _was_ about to face you like a man, remember? I took him outside so nothing we were gonna regret would happen.”

“Why would we regret it?” Patrick says.

“Because he’s our brother, and we love him, even though he hurt our feelings.”

Patrick scoffs.

“Also, because this is about Dad, not you, and I know he really wants to see Amir, and every second you spend arguing with me ‘cos of your pride and your ego is another second Dad spends not knowing where Amir is and if he’s okay,” Max adds, knowing that will be the final blow. They all love Louis too much to deprive him of this reunion.

“You know what,” Mia says, pointing a finger at Max, “I never realized this about you, but you’re kind of an asshole sometimes, Max. You play us all so easily with this ‘nice’ thing. You’re a nicehole.”

Max just smiles at her.

“Fine,” Mia says. “We’ll go chill in the den.” She reaches up to squeeze Patrick’s shoulder; his face remains angry, but he relents, and they head down the hall together.

Sunday inhales and stays put.

“Do you want to say hi to him?” Max asks her.

She seems to consider it. “Maybe later,” she says with a sad smile, then follows after Mia and Patrick.

*

Louis knows _something_ must be going on, because he keeps hearing commotion downstairs, and the front door opening and closing, and Patrick shouting. His watch is across the room on the dresser, though, and Liam is still down the hall trying to wrestle April into outdoor clothes, so he’s forced to sit there in bed, waiting, his heart racing and his ears pricked.

Finally a knock comes at the door and Max’s voice says, “Dad?”

“Yeah,” Louis calls.

Max opens the door and pokes his head in. “Amir is here,” he says.

Louis’ heart starts racing faster, and his mouth goes dry. “Is he.”

“Yeah, he’s right behind me.”

“Okay. Does he want to come in?”

“Yes,” Max says. “But only if you want him to.”

“Of course I want you to come in, you walnut,” Louis says, loudly enough for Amir to hear. “Fox, go tell Payno, alright?”

“On it,” Max says, giving him a thumbs up.

He disappears from the doorway, and then a moment later, Amir appears, pushing the door open.

Louis’ breath catches as he tries to take in all of Amir from head to toe, doing a physical inventory of him. Ten fingers, presumably ten toes, no visible injuries. He looks like hell and is trembling, but that fits with what Zayn said about him being on a hard comedown.

Amir doesn’t look at Louis as he inches into the room; he stares at the floor instead. He has the eyes of someone who’s been on a very long bender — rimmed with dark circles, glassy, vacant but pained at the same time.

“Will you just come here?” Louis says, his voice thick with tears, holding his arms out.

Amir goes to him, climbing up onto the bed and collapsing into his arms, clinging to him like a little kid. They both shake with sobs as they embrace each other. Louis strokes his hair hard, caging the slender warmth of his familiar body in his arms, in disbelief that he’s even real.

Liam comes in while they’re holding each other and crying. He looks a little emotional, himself. Louis smiles at him over Amir’s shoulder, and he smiles back.

“I thought you hated me,” Amir murmurs into Louis’ shoulder, which he’s soaked with tears.

Louis laughs. “I can’t ever hate you, sweetie. You’re my baby.”

“I missed you.”

Louis kisses him on the head in response, because _I missed you too_ is so laughably inadequate. Amir sits up, wiping his eyes.

“Zayn didn't tell me you were coming here,” Louis says.

“I asked him not to,” Amir says. “Sorry.”

“That’s alright. Are you okay?” Louis says, studying him some more, touching his shoulder. “He told me you’re, er…”

“Detoxing? Yeah.”

“Can we help?”

“I don’t think so,” Amir mutters.

“Are you gonna…” Louis trails off. “You staying?”

Amir exhales through his nostrils. “I mean, I don’t get the sense I’m very wanted around here.”

“Well, this is our house,” Louis says, gesturing between himself and Liam, “and we want you.”

Amir turns to Liam, who nods.

“Rather have you here than anywhere else,” he says gruffly.

“I mean, if you wanted to go be with Zayn while you try to get sober, that’s fine too,” Louis says. “Or if you wanted to, uh, y’know…” Check into rehab, he doesn’t say. “But we’re here for you.”

Amir draws a thready breath, then grimaces as he’s wracked by a tremor. “I want my daughter,” he says. “I don’t really want to be here, but I want to see my daughter.”

“Okay. Liam?”

Liam hesitates, but Louis nods at him, and he slips out of the room and goes down the hall. While he’s gone, Louis continues to pet Amir, stroking his hair and shoulder. He wants to soothe him, but he doesn’t know if he even can. Amir’s distress seems to come from deep inside, like he’s wrestling with something beneath the waves of himself, where Louis can’t see.

Amir just sits there, staring into space, trembling. It seems to be taking a lot out of him just to remain upright and conscious.

Liam returns a moment later with April in his arms. He brings her around the side of the bed, and when she spots Amir, she lunges for him. “Daddy! Daddy!”

Amir takes her into his arms and pulls her close, squeezing her. He grabs at her golden hair with a tattooed hand, and buries his face against her cheek. Tears start streaming down his cheeks again. Louis swallows over a lump in his throat.

“Hi baby,” Amir whispers to her.

“Daddy,” April chirps, hugging him around the neck. “Daddy-addy.”

Amir meets Louis’ eyes. “She has no idea,” he mutters, and hugs her tighter. “She just wants me here… she doesn’t know what happened...”

“Kids are good like that,” Louis says.

Amir kisses her on the head.

“You keep leaving her, though, she’s not gonna forgive you,” he adds. “Not when she gets older.”

Louis doesn’t mean to say this — it just jumps out of him, the words tasting bitter on his tongue. Amir eyes him reproachfully, but nods in understanding.

“I didn’t want to leave her,” he says quietly. “You know why I left.”

“We can discuss all that later, love.”

April lays her head contentedly against Amir’s chest and starts sucking her thumb. Amir continues stroking her hair. “How are you feeling?” he says to Louis. “Are you okay?”

“I’m loads better,” Louis says. “Just taking it easy and recovering. I’m fine, seriously, I hope Payno didn’t scare you.”

Amir nods, seeming relieved, while Liam, po-faced, gives him the finger from behind Amir’s back.

“Gonna take more than a little pneumonia to bump me off.” Louis winks at Liam. “I’m assuming the hike is cancelled?”

“Er,” Liam says. “Well. Maybe the kids should still go, but maybe I should stay? And April will not be going, I’m assuming?”

Amir holds her tighter as if he’s expecting Liam to rip her out of his arms. His amber, feline eyes and feral posture make him look like a mother cat clinging to his lone kitten.

“No, she won’t,” Louis says quickly, so Amir can relax. “But do I have permission from Nurse Ratched to get out of bed? ‘Cos I need to go talk to…” He mouths Evan’s name.

This doesn’t get past Amir, who exhales through clenched teeth.

“Yeah, sure, you can go down the hall,” Liam says.

“How generous of you, Payno, thanks.”

“I’m only following your doctor’s orders! I let you go to the toilet by yourself, don’t I?”

“Thank God for small favors.” Louis gets out of bed, inhaling deep to try and fill his lungs. This hurts far less than it did just a few days ago, though he still feels a correspondent twinge behind his ribs. “You good?” he says to Amir.

“Am I good to sit here for five minutes, with Liam a foot away?” Amir says, deadpan. “No, I’m gonna start shooting heroin between my toes and my head’s gonna spin around a hundred and eighty degrees, so you better hurry back.”

“I’m just asking!”

“I’m fine, Dad.”

“And be careful with what you say around her,” Louis says, nodding at April, who looks at him in curiosity. “She picks up on a lot more words now, and she’s gettin’ older.”

Amir sighs. “Great, this already.”

“Already what?”

“You know what.”

“Amir, I’m just saying. You haven’t been here since a week after she got the cochlear implant, alright? I don’t know what you know or don’t know.”

“I read all your texts,” Amir says in an icy voice. “I FaceTime with her.”

“It’s not the same, the nanny told me she can’t understand your speech over FaceTime ‘cos it sounds too tinny.”

“Oh, yeah, that reminds me, thanks for firing the nanny so I couldn’t talk to my daughter anymore without talking to one of you guys,” Amir says. “That was real nice stuff. Don’t think you slipped that one by me.”

“Amir, the last nanny refused to learn to sign, and it was _your_ demand that everyone in her life should sign with her.”

“‘Cos that’s what deaf people recommend!”

“Please just quit talking about heroin.”

Amir snorts. “Fine.”

Louis walks gingerly out of the room and down the hall, trying not to overexert himself. As much shit as he’s been giving Liam, he really isn’t trying to kill himself from some stupid pneumonia, plus he doesn’t want to fuck up his singing voice.

He stops in front of Evan’s room and knocks.

“Yo,” Evan calls warily.

“It’s me.”

“Come in.”

Louis lets himself in and shuts the door behind himself, leaning on it. Evan is sitting on the edge of his bed with his phone in his hand, scrolling idly like he’s trying to distract himself by the fact that his husband is down the hall. He puts it aside when Louis comes in, and looks up at him, lacing his fingers together.

“I’m trying to get him to stay,” Louis says, wanting to be totally honest. “If you’re not comfortable with that, I get it. I also want him to be able to have access to April, for her good and his both. Again, if you’re not comfortable with that, I get it. I’m honestly not sure how to handle this. What d’you want out of this situation?”

Evan appears to be at a loss. “Dude, I have no idea.”

“Do you want to talk to him?”

“I guess we _have_ to talk at some point,” Evan says helplessly.

“I know you’ve missed him,” Louis says.

“Yeah, but… I’m so angry, y’know...”

“I know. He’s pretty angry at you too.”

“I know he is,” Evan says, sounding frustrated. “‘Cos he has everything backwards. And if we talk, he’s just gonna attack me backwards, y’know?”

“That is how these things tend to go,” Louis agrees. “But I also have faith that you two love each other enough to meet in the middle.”

“April should see him,” Evan says, looking down at his hands. “I mean, just for her sake. I dunno. Is he still sober?”

“He seemed sober to me, aye.”

“That’s something, I guess.”

“It’s your call here, what happens next,” Louis says. “You’re the primary caretaker. I don’t have any hidden motive, here. I love my son, I want him healthy and happy, but I’m Team April, ‘cos he’s old enough to make decisions for himself, and she’s not.”

“I know.”

“Me and Payno can take April off your hands tonight, if you like,” Louis says. “Take as much time as you need to to prepare to talk to him, but I don’t think you should put it off. Whatever you two want to do from here, whether you want to split up for good, try to make it work, go to marriage counseling before you decide… if you want to talk about Amir going to rehab or summat, whatever. You’re an adult. But I can’t make these decisions for you, Evan. This is your life.”

“I know,” Evan says again.

“Alright. I’ll leave you alone, now.”

“Where is he?” Evan says, looking up at Louis again.

“He’s in our room, wiv April,” Louis says. “Liam’s there, too.”

“Okay.”

“I can keep him in there so the rest of you can have the run of the house if you like,” Louis says. “I reckon you and Mims might want to have a powwow.”

Evan laughs. “Yeah, I’m actually texting her right now.”

“How pissed is she?”

“Pretty pissed, but I know it’s not real. It’s just, y’know...”

“Bluster?”

“Yeah. Patrick too.”

“Aye, I heard him yelling earlier,” Louis says.

“Yeah, he apparently keeps saying he’s going to beat Amir up,” Evan says, laughing.

Louis laughs too. “Yep, those are my kids. Do either of them want to talk to him?”

“I think Max told them they should take a while to cool off, first.”

“That’s smart.”

An air of weariness crashes over Evan like an ocean tide. “I wanted him to come home for so long,” he says. “I’ve been waiting for this for so long, and now I’m just… I just feel nauseous, and like, numb. I dunno.”

“It’s okay,” Louis says. “That’s understandable. Take as long as you need.”

“Thanks.” Evan gets to his feet. “I’m gonna go downstairs so we can do a… what did you say?”

“Powwow?”

“Yeah, powwow.”

*

Mia doesn’t even realize how edgy she is until the door to the den opens and she jumps several inches into the air, like a cat. She realizes it’s just Evan and lets out a sigh of relief before she resumes pacing the carpet.

“Hey,” Sunday calls to Evan as he comes over to the couch that she and the twins have piled onto. “What’s going on?”

Evan shrugs and sits down next to Max, who hands him a chilled water bottle. Max keeps handing everyone water, like he’s a boxing coach. “I have no idea. He’s in Liam and Louis’ room, with April. I didn’t see him.”

Mia tries to take a deep breath, but it feels like her ribcage is full of feathers. “Okay.”

“What do we do?” Evan says, looking around.

“I don’t know,” Patrick says. Goose is on his lap again, and Patrick is petting him robotically like he’s trying to soothe himself. “I’m not a social worker.”

“I think you and me should dip for the night,” Max says to Patrick. “We can go over to Caroline’s, her parents are in Napa this weekend. I feel like there’s too many people here, and it’s gonna be awkward.”

“It’s already awkward,” Mia says.

“I just don’t want to add to anyone’s stress,” Max says. “And Paddy’s hyper.”

“I’m not _hyper_!”

“You’re a little hyper,” Sunday mutters. “Maybe I should go, too.”

“No, come on,” Mia begs her. “I need you.”

Sunday looks at her, and Mia stares her down, trying to telepathically communicate the significance of the bond between the three of them. It’s always been Mia, Amir and Sunday, since they were little kids; they’ll be unbalanced without her. Too much heart, not enough wisdom.

“Okay,” Sunday relents. “I can stay another day or two. But if it gets really dramatic, I’m getting a hotel. You know I don’t like drama.”

“It’s a deal,” Mia says. That’s good, actually, because it’ll give her an incentive to try and stay calm.

Her watch dings, and she glances down; it’s Aya texting her back, asking for an update. She shuts the screen off. She’ll update her later, when there’s something to actually update her about.

“Mia,” Evan says, “I don’t want to put you in a weird position, but I feel like you should talk to him before me. You’re the one who knows him best, besides Louis. He listens to you.”

“What do you want me to say?” Mia says, as her palms grow slippery with prickly sweat.

“Just feel him out. I have no idea what he wants, right now. I don’t want to go in blind.”

“Do you know what _you_ want?”

“No,” Evan says.

“Divorce,” Patrick suggests.

“Paddy, shut up,” Mia says, noticing how Evan’s face tightens when he says this. “You’re, like, forty years old mentally and six years old emotionally, we don’t need your input, here.”

“Ouch.”

“I’m just saying, you can sit this one out.”

“I’m legally an adult now,” Patrick counters. “I’m gonna go get married just to show you all. I’m gonna be the best at marriage out of all of us.”

Sunday snorts. “Okay,” she says.

“Who you gonna marry?” Max says, smiling at him.

“First person that says yes, obviously.”

“Yeah, that’s always the best way to do it,” Evan says, somehow maintaining a straight face.

“You could marry Rodman for the tax breaks,” Mia suggests.

Patrick points to her. “I have actually thought about that before. Especially if me and him start a business together.”

“Yeah, plus then they can’t make him testify against you,” Mia says. Everyone cracks up while Patrick fakes a laugh and gives her the finger. “Paddy’s actually going to marry the concept of capitalism. The invisible hand of the free market.”

“What type of wedding gifts would we get for him and the invisible hand of the free market?” Evan says, still miraculously maintaining a straight face.

“Blank checks,” Patrick says, like it’s obvious.

*

Mia goes upstairs when she feels like she can no longer reasonably avoid doing so.

It isn’t as weird as she expected it to be, seeing Amir. He’s so familiar to her that her body doesn’t seem to register their estrangement; when she opens the door and her eyes land on him, her heart lifts in happiness like it normally would.

He looks up from April, meeting her eyes. He looks nervous.

Louis clears his throat.

“I’ve been sent to confer with you,” Mia says drily to Amir.

“Oh, am I actually getting an audience with the downstairs Mafia?” Amir shoots back at her. “Lucky me. I thought you were all just going to avoid me all day.”

“Don’t be a dick, I’m here now. You’ve been gone all year, not everything is gonna happen on your timetable.”

“Hey, hey,” Louis says lightly, reaching out to take April from Amir. “Why don’t you two go talk outside? You should get some fresh air, Amir, you look peaky. You want coffee?”

Amir nods. He slides off the bed unsteadily, grabbing onto it for support as he lands on his feet. Jesus, he must be in bad shape. Worry pricks Mia’s heart as she watches him.

“Daddy,” April says, sounding anxious and reaching out for him.

“I’ll be right back,” Amir says to her, signing it expertly as he does.

They walk downstairs in awkward silence, and Mia escorts Amir to the kitchen so he can pour himself a cup of coffee, feeling like a service dog or a jail warden.

The silence persists as they walk out onto the patio and sit down at one of the round tables, on opposite sides, facing each other.

“Do you care if I smoke?” Amir says, pulling a blue, soft pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, then a lighter.

Mia holds her hand out.

“Really?” Amir says, his brow knitting.

“Why is everyone so shocked by this?” Mia says.

“You’re just not usually that self-destructive.”

“Oh, you have no idea,” Mia says, staring him down.

Amir hands her a cigarette and the lighter. It sparks alive in her mouth, and she takes a deep drag before handing the lighter back.

“I don’t smoke that often,” Amir mutters. “I’m just, y’know.”

“Trying to stay sober?”

“Yeah.”

“How long is it, now?”

Amir takes a drag and then exhales and ashes directly onto the table. “Five days without coke.”

“Wow, five whole days.”

“I’m not expecting you to feel sorry for me, but yeah, it’s actually been really hard.”

Mia shakes her head and looks out over the horizon, at the rolling green hills of Gold Country.

“Why do I feel like I just sat down for a chess match?” Amir says wryly, playing with the cigarette package. His right hand twitches, and he makes a face, grabbing it and pressing the thumb of his left hand deep between the tendons in his right palm.

“I don’t even know how to play chess,” Mia says.

“You’d enjoy it,” Amir mutters, still massaging his hand. “It’s like soccer, it’s just all in your head.”

Mia sighs. “Don’t be nice to me, please.”

“Oh, sorry. Hey, fuck you, Mia. Get fucked.”

Mia starts laughing. “Don’t make me laugh, either.”

“What do you want to say to me?” Amir says. “Just say it. I have some shit to say to you, too, but I’m going to acknowledge that I’m coming at a disadvantage, here, ‘cos I’m outnumbered and I went no-contact.”

“What could you possibly have to say to me?” Mia demands. “How are you the injured party, here? I did nothing but try to help you. I’m the one person you should have been talking to this whole time. I think you owed me that, after everything we’ve been through together.”

Amir smokes more. “I couldn’t possibly talk to you,” he says.

“Why not?”

“‘Cos you would have fucked me up about things more, and it would have really strained our relationship, okay? Yeah, you get me better than anyone else does, but that makes you really fucking arrogant about how well you know me.” Mia tries to interrupt, and he talks over her. “And you’re so stubborn, and you get so mad, and guess what? You had no idea what I was going through. You don’t have a kid, or a spouse. You’ve never gone to the psych ward ‘cos of — you know? You have no idea. But you thought you knew. You thought you knew what I was going through, and really, you were part of the problem! All of you were!”

“How?” Mia begs him. “Explain.”

“The way you looked at me!” Amir explodes. “I could tell! I’m not stupid, Mia! None of you trusted me with her, all of you found me exhausting, found the whole thing exhausting —”

“We love you, we were worried about you!”

“Then why did I feel like such a fucking burden on everyone?”

“Because it _was_ exhausting! It was exhausting — these past two years have been exhausting!”

“Because of me!”

“Are we not allowed to be exhausted from being worried? We were exhausted _with_ you, not _at_ you!”

“You went behind my back to talk to Evan,” Amir snaps. He’s smoked his cigarette down to the filter, and he lights another. Meanwhile, Mia’s has burned out in her fingers — she’s a less nimble smoker. “He was crying to you on the phone about how terrible it was for his husband to be so crazy and depressed and traumatized, what the fuck was that?”

“He was traumatized, too, and he couldn’t talk to you about it! He had no family but you and a baby, he could only talk to me and Dad! You got so angry every time he brought it up!”

“How the fuck would you feel, if your husband kept bringing that up to you? ‘Wow, honey, I’m so sad about when you almost offed yourself and our kid.’ I don’t even remember doing it! How am I supposed to be okay with people bringing that up to me over and over? What the fuck am I supposed to say in response? It feels like getting slapped in the face!”

“I don’t know! It’s a really horrible, impossible situation!”

“I agree!”

They go quiet.

Amir brings his cigarette to his lips and takes a hard drag. “It was out of pocket for you to talk to him about it, and not me,” he says.

“Amir…” Mia rubs her forehead. “I get why you feel that way, I do. But none of us could get through to you. You were so angry, and sad, and nothing we tried worked. We didn’t want to bring up what happened to you, ‘cos we knew it triggered you, and to be perfectly honest? We didn’t want you to kill yourself. Every single day since that day, we’ve all been sick to our stomachs worrying about you killing yourself, whether on purpose or by accident. Me, Evan, Dad, Baba, Liam, Harry, the twins, Sunday, all of us.”

“So the way to get me not to kill myself is to not talk to me?” Amir says.

Mia’s eyes fill with tears, and she shakes her head. “No. I don’t know. I don’t know how to stop people from killing themselves,” she chokes out. “I love you so much, Meer. I’m sorry you’ve been in so much pain. But what do you want from me? What do you want from us?”

“To see me the way you used to see me,” Amir says in a small voice. She looks up and sees that he’s crying, too. “Why did everything have to change because of something I don’t even remember? ‘Cos of some chemical glitch in my brain? My entire life went to shit, none of you respected me anymore. I didn’t get to be a _person_ , I had to be a patient. I had to be discussed and examined and stared at. I’m a grown man, Mia!”

“I know,” Mia exclaims, wiping her eyes. “We know! You didn’t have to run away, and abandon your baby daughter, and invent this crazy rock star identity just to prove to us that you’re a person!”

“Well, maybe I did, though!”

“But did that even work?”

“No!”

They start laughing through their tears.

“At least the rest of the world saw me as a person, for a while,” Amir mutters, putting out his cigarette. “Even if the person they saw me as was this evil deadbeat piece of shit who abandoned his family to go do drugs in Europe. At least that’s someone with control over their actions and their life. At least me leaving April on purpose and having her be here, safe with you guys, is better than me going crazy and killing her.”

Mia’s heart skips a beat. “I don’t think you’re going to kill her,” she says. “Like you said, that was a one-time chemical thing, like a hormonal imbalance…”

Amir shrugs. “Who knows.”

“Do you worry about that?”

“Of course I do. What am I, a fucking idiot? It’s honestly most of why I left.”

“Oh, Amir…”

His jaw is tight, and he’s staring hard at the table. His trembling has gotten worse.

“You didn’t tell us that before you left,” Mia says. “You made it sound like we were all these losers who were cramping your style, and you just wanted to be rid of us.”

“Well, first of all, it’s embarrassing to admit to,” Amir says. “And second, you wouldn’t have understood.”

“Yeah, you’re right about that.”

He looks up at her. “I am?”

“Of course we wouldn’t understand. How could we understand?” She shrugs helplessly. “It’s horrible. It’s like surviving a mass shooting, or something, it’s not something most people are going to be able to relate to at all.”

Amir looks heartened by this comparison. “Yeah,” he says. “Exactly.”

“Do you want to try to fix things with Evan?” Mia says. “‘Cos he’s not over you, at all.”

“There’s no way he forgives me for this,” Amir says, the light leaving his face immediately. “No way. He was worried enough about me being a fit parent to April before, and now it’s like, I’m a deadbeat drug addict, too.”

“Life really isn’t that black and white, you know it’s not,” Mia says. “You guys just need to talk, like actually talk. You need to be very honest with him, and tell him the stuff you told me. You have to tell him he hurt you, and you felt like you couldn’t talk to him, and all that.”

“He won’t give a shit.”

“Yes, he will. Amir, he’s been in love with you for like, ten years. Come on. He’s your best friend. He’s been a mess without you.”

Amir swallows and wipes a tear from his cheek. “I’m so tired,” he says, trembling harder. “I dunno if I have it in me. Talking to you and Dad was hard enough.”

“Alright, well, you kind of have to do this, so what do you need? More coffee? A nap?”

“Cocaine,” Amir says honestly.

Mia laughs. “Okay, that’s the one thing I can’t give you.”

“Adderall or meth would also work.”

She laughs harder. “Amir…”

“I’m kidding,” he says, smiling. She’s missed seeing his smile so much. “A nap, maybe. A long shower and a nap, and then I’ll try to talk to him.”

“Okay.” Mia stretches her arm out across the table and takes his trembling hand in hers. “It’s really good to have you home. I swear that’s true.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I feel like I can breathe properly for the first time since February.”

More tears well in his eyes. “I really didn’t think you guys cared this much,” he says with difficulty. “I thought it would be easier on all of you if I was gone.”

“Amir... Jesus Christ, dude.” Mia squeezes his hand.

*

Mia’s too emotionally shaken up to face the rest of her siblings, after that, so she texts Evan and asks him to meet her out on the patio so they can debrief.

She walks Amir back to Louis and Liam’s room, first, to make sure he and Evan don’t accidentally cross paths. Amir brings his mug of cold coffee with him and finishes it as he goes.

“We smell like cigarettes,” she whispers when they stop outside Louis’ door.

“I’ve been doing worse things,” Amir mutters.

Mia pushes the door open for him. April, who was playing with toys on the floor, jumps to her feet and toddles over to him. Amir bends into a squat and hugs her. He’s still shaky, but seems less so when he’s around her.

Louis meets Mia’s eyes and makes a ‘thumbs up, thumbs down?’ gesture. She gives him a thumbs up.

“Good,” Louis mouths, looking relieved. Liam looks relieved, too.

“Doggy,” April says, holding a little stuffed dog up to Amir.

“It is a doggy,” Amir says, sounding proud. He signs a word that Mia guesses must be _dog_ — her ASL vocabulary is pretty limited. “What does the doggy say?”

April looks puzzled.

“Woof,” Amir says. “Woof woof.” He looks at Louis. “D’you know how to sign woof?”

Louis thinks about it, then hovers his palms over each other and flutters his fingers.

Amir squints at him. “That looks like a butterfly or something.”

“I swear it’s woof!”

April hands the dog to Amir, putting it in his hand.

“Is this for me?” Amir says to her, signing.

April nods. “Daddy,” she says.

“Thanks,” Amir says, his voice catching.

Evan is waiting on the patio when Mia steps out there; he’s leaning on one of the pillars of the deck above them, his arms folded, looking out at the sprawling backyard like he’s a 19th century land surveyor.

“Hey,” Mia says, sliding the door shut behind her.

Evan turns to her and nods. “Hey.”

“You wanna sit?”

“Sure.”

They take their seats at the same table she sat at with Amir. Evan appears to take note of the cigarette butts and ash on the tabletop; Mia smiles apologetically at him.

“What did he say?” Evan says.

“We’re getting straight to the point, huh?”

Evan smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Okay, now is not the time to try and be funny, noted.

“Uh,” Mia says, lacing her hands and resting them on the cool glass of the tabletop. “I dunno. He’s really fucked up and hurt, which we knew. I think it’s like — he’s half angry at us because he feels like we didn’t support him enough after what happened, half angry at just, like, the world. He doesn’t quite trust himself with April, but he also resents us for not trusting him with April.”

Evan nods. “Okay.”

“He just really isn’t over it, still. In any sense.”

“He needs to be back in therapy,” Evan says tightly. “He needs to not be coping by doing drugs.”

“I agree,” Mia says, shrugging. “But it’s not that simple.”

“How is it not? Something horrible happens, and we don’t really know how to support him, we’re all coping the best we can, and he responds by telling us all to go fuck ourselves and abandoning me and our daughter to go become a junkie?”

“Evan,” Mia says gently. “You don’t think that.”

“I can’t just forgive him,” Evan says. “He has a lot of shit he has to prove to me. He’s been back here a few hours, he’s been sober for a few days. There’s no way I can trust him yet. Honestly, I’ve been thinking a lot about it, and I feel like he’d have to go through rehab and really commit to it for me to feel like we’re on the same page.”

“You guys can talk about that. But are you sure you wouldn’t just be using that to avoid the hurt of dealing with him?”

Evan’s light eyes flash. “What do you mean?”

“I mean if he goes to rehab, then that buys you some time,” Mia says. “A few months where you don’t really have to see him or deal with him, or worry about him around April. You know?”

“Yeah? And? Is that so horrible? I’m taking things one day at a time, here, is asking for another three months such a dickhead thing to do? I didn’t expect him to come here, Mia. I had no warning.”

“But you’d just be putting it off,” Mia says. “And that’s three more months April misses out on having with him. You didn’t see them together, Evan, they missed each other so much.”

“Don’t try to tell me what’s best for my daughter! You don’t have a kid, okay! You’re the aunt, not the mom!”

“Oh, is that it, huh?” Mia demands. “You can scam free childcare off me and my dad for ages, and rely on us emotionally, but when we ask you to consider what’s best for her and Amir, you tell us to fuck off, we’re not her parents? Nice, Evan! That’s nice stuff!”

Evan gets up and walks away, breathing a heavy sigh and running his hands through his hair. “I knew this would happen,” he mutters. “I knew he would get to you, if you talked to him.”

“ _Get_ to me? He’s my brother! I love him! If you don’t love him anymore, fine, then divorce him! But don’t tell me how to feel!”

“Don’t tell _me_ how to feel!” he screams back at her.

Mia puts her hands up. Her adrenaline is so cranked up that she’s starting to get freaked out — probably a vestigial reaction from Katarina, she thinks bitterly. “Calm down,” she barks.

Evan appears to at least try to do so. “Look,” he says, “I don’t really have any family, okay?”

“I know,” Mia says softly.

“You guys are all I have. And I always knew if something happened between me and Amir, you’d have to side with him. But that sucks, and I’m allowed to not be okay with it.”

“We’re not siding with him, Evan! We’re on your side, too! We just want what’s best for everyone, especially April, I don’t want her to get torn away from him again! He carried her inside him, he spent her infancy with her, she wants him around!”

“Then he shouldn’t have left us!” Evan screams.

“I agree!” Mia screams back. “I never thought he should have! I backed you up in that intervention, didn’t I? I’ve been telling him to come home for months, and now he has, and you want to just throw everything away instead of hearing him out?”

“I shouldn’t have to hear him out!”

“I get that you feel that way, but this is how life is, Evan! Sometimes it fucking sucks, and the people you love do terrible things to you, and you’re the one who decides how you react to it!”

“I don’t want to decide,” Evan says, stone-faced.

“Evan… you have to. This is your life.”

“Why does this have to be my life?” Evan says helplessly.

“It’s not always gonna be like this, okay? This is one bad day. I get you’re fucked up over this, but you have to just, like, cope. I’m not trying to be an asshole, I just don’t see any other way through this.”

Evan leans against the same pillar he was leaning on before, hugging his arms to himself. “I know,” he says roughly.

“We’re always here for you, okay?” Mia says. “I promise. I swear. You’re family for life, even if you and Amir split up. You can be our Scott Disick.”

Evan snorts. “Give me a little more credit than _that_.”

“Do you really think you can’t forgive him?” Mia says, giving him a serious look. “I’m not, like, advocating you get back together if you think you can’t make it work. April shouldn’t grow up with parents who are on the outs and just staying together for her sake.”

“I don’t want that either,” Evan says, without hesitation, clearly thinking of his own parents and their marriage of convenience. “I just don’t know. I feel like I don’t trust him at all. I love him, but I don’t trust him.”

“I know. But you know, that’s why he left in the first place.”

Evan looks confused.

“Because you didn’t trust him with April,” Mia elucidates.

“It’s not that I didn’t trust him,” Evan says, but he no longer sounds as sure of himself as he did a minute ago.

“You didn’t, though. None of us did, did we?”

“You don’t know what it was like for me,” Evan says. “Every day I was at work, all I could think about was like, what if I come home and they’re both dead?”

“To the point that it was almost a relief when he left you?”

“No,” Evan says, sounding even less sure.

“Because that’s what he thinks,” Mia says. “He thinks his leaving made it easier on all of us.”

Evan tucks his thumb into his fist, cracking his knuckle. “Sounds like a really slick excuse for having left.”

“Evan…”

“I’m not saying he’s totally wrong, or he shouldn’t feel hurt and fucked up and whatever else,” Evan says. “I’m just saying, I have a right to be hurt too.”

“You guys should really talk this out, seriously. Like I just don’t know how much more I can do here. Y’know?”

“I know that,” Evan says. He cracks more of his knuckles.

“You want to have a drink first?” Mia says. “Take the edge off?”

Evan laughs. “Yeah, actually.”

Mia gets up and beckons him toward her, heading for the patio door. “What’re you feeling? Rum lemonade? Aperol spritz?”

“I’m fine with a beer.”

“I’m fine with a _beer_ ,” Mia says, doing a gruff imitation of Evan’s voice and making him laugh more as they head into the kitchen. “I’m a regular Joe. I work _outdoors_ with my _hands_. I drink a _beer._ ”

“Are you done making fun of me?”

“Not yet, hold on. ‘I drive a _truck_.’”

“Alright, alright.”

*

Louis dozes while Amir plays with April, going in and out of sleep, soothed by the sound of her giggling and him talking quietly to her. After about twenty minutes he opens his eyes for good; Amir is sitting on the edge of the bed, finishing a mug of coffee while April plays with the stuffed dog she had handed to him, earlier.

Louis clears his throat. “Evan and Mims still talking?”

“I guess,” Amir murmurs.

“You alright?”

Amir nods and strokes April’s hair. “I’m just thinking about, like, what if me and him can’t make it work,” he says. “I hate the idea of splitting her. I don’t want her childhood to be like mine was, no offense.”

“None taken. Wasn’t like I wanted that for you, either.”

“I don’t want Evan to move on,” Amir says. “I don’t want her to have a step-anything… I don’t want her to hear horrible things about me when I’m not around.” He looks morose. “It’d be so easy to make me sound evil.”

“Love, no one wants to make you sound evil to April, I promise.”

Amir shrugs.

“Listen,” Louis says, “it’s a different situation, but I fucked things up majorly with Liam, the first time around. I really put him through the wringer, and we barely spoke for years. By the time we were back on solid terms, all I was hoping is that we could be pals again, and bandmates. I didn’t think in a million years he’d want to give me another shot romantically.”

“He loves you,” Amir mutters.

“And Evan loves you. And he knows you love him, and that there’s external reasons why all this shit happened between you. You’d be amazed what sort of power that holds, honestly. The human heart has got a massive capacity to forgive.”

Amir nods. “Design flaw,” he says.

Louis laughs. “Maybe. But I think it’s nice.”

Amir trails his fingers through April’s hair, which shines in the sunlight like cornsilk. “Do you and Dad think I’m a loser?” he says, his voice unsteady.

“No,” Louis says. “Never. Why would you ask?”

“I just feel like I let you down.”

“Amir, we’re dead proud of you, always. Really, we feel like we let _you_ down.”

Amir swallows, his eyes still on April. “I let her down,” he says.

“Yeah, you did,” Louis says unemotionally. “Won’t be the last time you do, either, ‘cos that’s just how parenting goes. But if you stick around and try your best, she’ll forgive you. And nobody’s gonna turn her against you, including Evan.”

Amir nods. April, seeming to sense that his mood has nosedived, turns to him and gives him a big smile. He smiles back at her.

*

Evan manages to put off seeing Amir for a few hours, because Amir is showering, then sleeping off his coke withdrawals. The twins leave for Caroline’s, and Liam and Louis retreat to their room, and Mia starts mixing Evan, herself and Sunday drinks from the bar cart in the den. She doesn’t stop until they’re all four drinks in and Sunday begs her to.

“I hate being hungover,” Sunday says.

“You’re no fun,” Mia tells her, but Evan is secretly glad that someone other than him said it. He doesn’t want to face Amir drunk — that won’t do anyone any good.

He gives April her bath and puts her to bed in the nursery, sort of relieved Amir is asleep so they don’t have to argue over who should be the one to do this. Evan likes bedtime; it’s often his favorite part of the day. He likes reading April stories.

He goes into his bedroom, a little dizzied by the four drinks, and washes his face before he gets too tired to. He’s just turned the sink off when he hears a sound.

Evan tilts his head, listening. It sounds like someone crying in the room next door. Who’s next door to him? Wait — isn’t Amir next door?

He hesitates, but now that he’s identified the sound as crying, it’s really hard to ignore. Especially because his heart still does belong to Amir, despite everything. Listening to him sob in despair feels like being rubbed with sandpaper, and all Evan wants to do is run to his side.

He has some dignity left, though, so he walks instead. He also knocks on the door instead of trying to barge in.

Amir’s sobs quiet down. Evan knocks again.

“What?” Amir calls, sounding aggrieved.

“You okay?” Evan calls back.

There’s a moment of silence.

“No?” Amir yells back, like he’s an idiot.

Evan laughs in spite of himself. “Can I come in?”

There’s another moment of silence.

“Yeah,” Amir says.

Evan opens the door. Amir is sitting at the foot of his bed, leaning on it, his arms folded over his comforter. There’s a big wet stain between his arms, like he was weeping into the bed.

“Could you, uh, try to cry a little more quietly?” Evan says. “It’s kind of a bummer to listen to.”

Amir stares at him for a long moment, looking appalled, his dark eyes round. Then he laughs and wipes his eyes. “You prick…”

Evan comes over to him and sits down next to him on the floor, bringing his knees to his chest and leaning his elbows on them. “What are you crying about?” he says.

“Nothing in particular,” Amir mutters. “I just started and I couldn’t stop.”

“Yeah.” Evan drums his fingers on his leg. “So, everyone keeps telling me to talk to you.”

Amir’s quiet.

“Kind of weird,” he continues, “‘cos I’ve been trying to talk to you for the last six months, and I haven't been able to, ‘cos you haven’t returned my calls or texts.”

“I know.”

“Yeah? Is that a little weird to you, too? To not be able to talk to your husband for six months?”

“You told me it was over,” Amir snaps. “You said if I went on tour, that we were over.”

“And you went on tour anyway, so that’s interesting.”

“Evan, we wouldn’t have made it if I didn’t. Are you fucking kidding me? You couldn’t even stand the sight of me by the time I left.”

“That’s not true.”

“Yes, it is,” Amir says. Evan can feel him trembling where he sits. “You took so many extra hours at work. You used to _wince_ when you walked in the door. You didn’t want to be around me!”

“It wasn’t you I didn’t want to be around,” Evan says, already weary. “It was, like… you weren’t even actually there, most of the time. It wasn’t the you I know, anyway, it was this shell of you, this zombie.”

“I’m me. I’m always me.”

“You were so sad and angry all the time, Amir.”

“I was trying to get better,” Amir says bitterly. “I took my stupid pills. I did fucking electroshock therapy. I just didn’t have anything to look forward to, do you not get that? I didn’t feel like a real parent to my daughter. I didn’t have an identity. The only thing I had was my music.”

“You could have kept making music and stayed home. You didn’t have to leave.”

“You had me locked in a tower!”

“I didn’t keep you there,” Evan snaps. He gets up, walking away, trying to keep his temper under control. Amir’s room in this house has remained untouched, these past few months; Louis hasn’t even liked to let the housekeeper get in there. The photos in frames and posters advertising jazz festivals are all dusty.

“You weren’t trying to get me out. We never went on trips, or on dates, or tried new things —”

“Amir, I was exhausted. We had a young baby, and I was working.”

“We’re rich, Evan! You didn’t need to work!”

“You’re rich,” Evan mutters. He turns back to Amir, who’s still sitting on the floor, his eyes alight with anger. “I’m nothing now. I’m nobody. I need to work.”

“Look, I had nothing in that house,” Amir says. “It was just me and April all day, and I wasn’t even allowed to be alone with her, you insisted a nanny or a housekeeper always be there, fucking staring at me, waiting for me to go crazy and drown her.”

“That wasn’t what that was about. I thought you’d appreciate an extra pair of hands when I wasn’t home.”

“Bullshit,” Amir spits at him. “Don’t lie to me like I’m stupid.”

“Fine,” Evan says. “Fine, you want the truth? Yeah, it was in case something happened. I mean, what would you do if you were me?”

“I don’t know, Evan,” Amir says. “What would you do if you were _me_?”

“I honestly have no idea.”

“I can tell you what you’d do. You’d get fucking tired of it. You’d get tired of being watched, and trapped, and talked about, and stared at, like I have been my whole life, like I’m not a person, and you’d snap and run away. You’d feel like if your husband doesn’t think you’re a fit enough parent to even be alone with your baby, then maybe he doesn’t want you around at all. And maybe your daughter is better off without you.”

“Well, she wasn’t.”

“Oh, I’m glad we cleared that up,” Amir sneers. “I’m glad to hear that I never, never, _ever_ know what’s best for my own baby. Only everyone else does. It’s my saintly fucking dad, and my salt of the earth husband, and my pain in the ass sister, they all know what’s best.”

“Maybe it’s the people who didn’t only gain sixteen pounds when they were pregnant, and have a premature baby because of it.” Evan knows this is a hit below the belt before it even leaves his mouth.

“Fuck you!” Amir screams at him. “I knew you’d pull that shit out on me, I knew you would! I felt sick all the time, I couldn’t eat!”

“You _never_ eat! You almost let your disordered fucking eating kill our daughter!”

“Fuck you,” Amir screams again, tears streaming down his face. “Fuck you, fuck you.”

“And then you resented _me_ ‘cos she was born deaf,” Evan screams back, “and you think that’s worse than death —”

“I do NOT!”

“I remember what you said in high school, Amir! I fucking remember! I asked you if you’d rather go deaf or go blind, and you said blind, you said you’d rather be dead than deaf! I remember!”

“I was a stupid kid!” Amir screams at him. “And I’m a musician, of course I’d say that! What, you think I left April ‘cos she’s deaf? I left her because of you people! I left her because of shit like this, you making me feel like a shitty dad!”

“That’s not what I’m trying to do!”

“You know what, I warned you,” Amir says, wiping his eyes. “I told you before we got pregnant that I was a type of bipolar, I told you the second I got that diagnosis. I reminded you when I was pregnant, I said I was at a bigger risk for postpartum shit. And you’ve known me since I was seven, dipshit, you know what I’m like. You know I’m a lot to deal with, or you should, anyway. You think you’re better than the rest of them, but you’re not, are you? You like me for how I look, and you like my family, but when shit got tough with me, _me_ , the crazy bitch you married, you couldn’t handle it!”

“I could handle your bipolar, and you being intense! I could handle our kid being deaf! I could handle her having to be in the NICU! I just couldn’t handle you almost killing her and yourself!” Evan’s voice grows ragged. “I was only twenty-four! How the fuck was I supposed to handle that?”

“How was _I_?” Amir demands, choking on his tears.

“I don’t know! I really don’t!”

Amir crumples, sobbing into his hands. He pulls his knees to his chest and weeps into them, shaking violently, his shoulders heaving. Evan goes to him without a second thought, pulling him into his arms and holding him protectively.

“I don’t blame you,” he whispers to Amir. “I never blamed you. I know it wasn’t your fault. I know you never wanted to hurt her.”

Amir’s sobs take on a keening quality, like he can’t get enough air. Evan strokes his back, trying to soothe him. The noise coming out of him is so acutely sorrowful that it physically sickens him to listen to. He wants it to stop, he doesn’t want to hear Amir be in this much pain.

“I’m sorry,” Evan says, stroking his hair. “I’m sorry if I made you feel like — I’m sorry.”

“My doctors told you I was fine,” Amir chokes, hiccuping. “They t-told you the ECT cured me, I wasn’t psychotic a-anymore, it was a hormonal imbalance, and it was gone when I left the hospital. They told you.”

“I know, but it came on out of nowhere…”

“No, it d-didn’t, you were just in denial, Evan! My dad noticed! Louis n-noticed something was wrong! Please!”

Hot tears start to leak from Evan’s eyes. “I thought you were just sleep-deprived,” he says, feeling like a stupid piece of shit. “I swear to God that’s what I thought. And like, I know your dad noticed something was off, but it wasn’t enough for us to force you to get help, okay? And none of us could have predicted what would happen.”

“I know,” Amir sobs. “I just — you don’t get it.”

“Help me get it.”

“You and I were always a team, before. Me and my dad and my sister were a team. And then I woke up in the hospital, and I had no idea what happened, they had me strapped down, and they told me what I did, and I didn’t even believe them, ‘cos I didn’t remember it. I thought I got kidnapped or something. And I couldn’t see anyone I knew, or talk to them, and they pumped me full of drugs, I didn’t even know what day it was, like, ever.”

Evan strokes his hair some more, and kisses him on the head.

“And then I finally got better,” Amir says. “And I still felt like shit, but I felt like a person again. And — and then I got out, and none of you saw me as a person. You all handled me like I was a little kid, and you and my dad and Mia, you were a team against me —”

“Not against you, dude! _For_ you!”

“But that isn’t how it felt. It just isn’t, Evan! You looked at me so fucking suspiciously when I held my own daughter! I hadn’t seen her in six weeks, and you were all looking at me like fucking goldfish when I held her for the first time! I was lying there in the psych ward crying because I missed her so much, I was fucking waking up lactating for no one, and when I finally got her back, you made me feel like this sick criminal over something I can’t even remember!”

“We didn’t mean to do that —”

“But you _did_!” he cries into Evan’s shoulder, clinging to the back of his shirt, soaking it with his tears. “I felt like I was on the outside of my own family, like you had spent those six weeks, like, strategizing about me behind my back —”

“Amir, the only thing we talked about was how to get you out of the psych ward! It was horrible, okay? We were all so worried about you, none of us could sleep, and April only wanted you, she cried literally all the time unless I had her wrapped in one of your shirts. We all just wanted _you_ back! The you we knew, the you we love! God, right now is the most I’ve seen the _you_ I married since this whole thing went down! You were so depressed for so long!”

“I think all the coke kind of knocked me out of it,” Amir says, and Evan starts laughing in a choppy way that hurts his lungs. “I’m a different type of depressed, now.”

“At least it’s the kind I can talk to,” Evan says, wiping his own eyes. “I felt like I couldn’t talk to you for so long. Like we’d talk, but you felt so far away…”

Amir clings to him harder. Their bodies press together, overheated and overstimulated from all their crying and yelling, and Evan starts to feel their old chemistry awakening in him, stirring after its long hibernation.

Evan tips his head back slightly, trying to get a read on Amir. Amir is looking at him with half-lidded eyes, his long eyelashes fanned out, his lips slightly parted.

“Amir, no,” Evan says, even as blood starts rushing to his dick. “No, no. Bad idea.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Amir says huskily.

“It’s a bad idea…”

They start kissing then, deeply. Evan’s missed kissing Amir so much. And he’s missed Amir like this, Amir _alive_ , not catatonic from depression — Amir fighting like a wildcat, wanting things, wanting to live. Wanting to fight for his daughter, instead of giving up on her. Wanting to fight for his family and Evan to understand him, instead of deciding that they never would.

They grind their bodies together, stretching out on the floor, dry humping through their clothes. Before Evan knows what’s happening, he’s bending Amir over the bed and thrusting into him, and Amir is biting down on the comforter so he doesn’t make noise.

They haven’t had sex since last December, so Evan comes almost immediately, although Amir senses that he’s going to before he does and orders him, “Pull out, pull out, pull out.” Even though Evan is lost in a haze of passion that’s like the fog of war, he hears this and manages to process it, pulling out and coming on Amir’s back. Getting Amir pregnant right now would be maybe the worst possible thing he could do — even his dick knows that.

Evan staggers backward, panting, pulling his pants back up and doing his belt. Amir stays bent across the bed, also panting. Neither of them says anything for a moment.

“That was a bad idea,” Evan finally says. He’s repeating himself, but he doesn’t know what else to do. He feels like a pussywhipped moron.

“I was alright with it,” Amir says.

He doesn’t look alright in general, though. He’s shaking again, worse than he was before, and when he turns around, he looks exhausted in a bone-rattled way, down to his soul.

“We didn’t finish our talk,” he says.

“You should go to bed,” Evan says. “We can talk in the morning.”

“No,” Amir says, “let’s keep going. I felt like we were getting somewhere. I can sleep when I’m dead.”

*

To Louis and Liam, this sounds like twenty minutes of screaming and hysterical crying, followed by five minutes of silence (punctuated by a suspiciously rhythmic thumping sound that Louis tries to ignore as best he can), followed by more screaming.

“BECAUSE I NEVER FUCKING CHEATED ON YOU ON TOUR, THAT’S WHY!” Amir’s voice echoes down the hallway.

Liam, who has been holding a pillow over his ears, gives up and tosses it aside. “D’you think this is ever going to end?” he says to Louis. “I’m so sleepy.”

“I’m just hoping they don’t wake April,” Louis says. “I’m not gettin’ her back down if she does. Fuck that. They’re her parents. They want to row all night, they can get the baby back down.”

“D’you think she can hear them?” Liam says. “Is she gonna be traumatized?”

“I don’t think she really registers properly loud noises as speech yet,” Louis says. “Besides, me and Zayn had fights like this in earshot of Mims and Amir when they were older than she is, and it didn’t, er…” He trails off. “Hmm. Maybe we _did_ fuck them up, actually, now that I’m thinking about it.” He reaches for the bedside table and checks the baby monitor. “Alright, good, she’s still asleep.”

Evan’s muffled voice sounds again, rising in pitch until they can hear him yelling, “... just supposed to forget the last six months, or what?”

“Alright,” Liam sighs, tossing the covers off himself. “You wanna go…” He mimes drinking from a bottle, his thumb and pinky extended.

“You can have a drink if you like,” Louis says. “I’m not allowed to.”

“Oh, that’s right.”

“Yeah, what’s up, Dr. Payno? Thought you were so on top of all this.”

“I’m too fuckin’ tired,” Liam says, coming over to Louis’ side of the bed to help him to his feet and wrap a supportive arm around him. “We’ll get you some Pedialyte, yeah?”

“Eugh, Pedialyte is so disgustin’. I feel terrible I forced Amir to drink it when he was a kid. No wonder ‘e’s so fucked up.”

“No, love, that was Pediasure.”

“Whatever, I can’t keep these silly American names for their beverages straight. Their sodas are doctors and their rehydration drinks are pediatricians. Madness.”

They head down the hall and toward the stairs, ignoring Evan and Amir, who are now yelling back and forth on the topic of whether or not Evan was more concerned about climate change than he was about Amir’s well-being.

“YOU DIDN’T WANT TO GET BETTER,” Evan yells. “AT LEAST THE PLANET _WANTS_ TO HEAL!”

Louis knocks on their door as he goes by and says, “Oi, fight fair!” as loudly as his pneumonia-ridden lungs will allow. This quiets them down long enough for Liam and Louis to reach the kitchen in peace.


	2. Chapter 2

SACRAMENTO, JULY 14, 2042

Amir sleeps in late the next day, so late that Louis must get worried about him, because around 11 he hears his door creak open. Louis creeps over to his bed and stands at the edge of it, staring at him.

“I’m alive,” Amir mumbles, shifting in the covers to prove it.

Louis’ hand strokes his hair. “Okay. I’ll let you sleep.”

Amir kind of wishes his dad would stay and keep petting his hair, but he knows Louis is worn out, himself, and should stay lying down as much as he can. So he doesn’t ask.

He finally goes downstairs around noon, hoping to avoid everyone but unfortunately running into everyone but Louis sitting down to a big brunch spread. Even the twins are back from wherever they went last night.

Amir hangs in the doorway for a moment, unsure if he wants to deal with this, but they notice him before he can sneak away. Everyone except Patrick either avoids eye contact or gives him a tight smile.

“Hey, Amir,” Patrick says lightly. “You want a waffle? We put powdered sugar on them, we thought that would make you feel more at home.”

Liam chokes on his orange juice while everyone else at the table does a heroic job of not laughing out loud at this. Amir doesn’t blame them. Patrick has excellent comedic timing, even when he’s making you want to stab him.

“Glad to see you’re still a little asshole,” Amir says to him. “I taught you well.”

“Yeah, I learned from the best,” Patrick says, smiling serenely.

“Morning, Amir,” Liam says, dabbing juice off of his shirt before shooting Patrick a death glare.

“Don’t mind me,” Amir says, breezing into the kitchen, trying to look unbothered and light on his feet despite the fact that he’s still wracked by muscle aches and tremors, and every cell in his body is demanding cocaine. “I’m just getting some coffee.”

“Amir —“ He hears the scrape of a chair and then footsteps as Liam follows him into the kitchen. “Hey, uh, I don’t want to pressure you or anything, but Louis asked me to see to it that you get something to eat. At least a protein bar, or some fruit. He said you didn’t eat last night.”

Everything that isn’t a stimulant or a beverage sounds acutely disgusting to him. Amir tries to imagine chewing a protein bar and physically gags while he’s pouring his coffee.

“Sorry,” he says to Liam. “I’m just, like, not feeling that. Is it okay with the wardens if I go smoke some weed to see if I can get a little hungry?”

“We’re not your wardens,” Liam says, sounding hurt. “That’s fine by me, but just realize, no one’s going to let you supervise April on your own if you’re high. I don’t care what you’re high on, if it’s weed or something else.”

“Wasn't expecting you to,” Amir says coolly. “Wouldn’t want you to.”

“Alright. I’ll put a plate aside for you.”

“Thanks,” Amir mutters, and sips his coffee.

Liam hesitates and says, “We’re all on the same side, here. Please remember that,” before walking back into the dining room.

Amir leans against the counter, continuing to drink his coffee. Footsteps sound again, and then Evan comes around the corner, holding a piece of toast.

“Just eat some fucking toast,” he says. “Without needing to smoke weed to do it.”

“You can’t _make_ me eat.”

“I’m begging you to eat, okay? Can you eat toast for April? How are we going to fix this shit and get you better if you won’t even do basic human functions? It’s like refusing to breathe, Amir, it doesn’t give me a whole lot of faith that you’re as committed to this as you say you are.”

Amir stares at the toast in his hand. Ew, it’s going to crumble in his mouth and then become food chunks in his throat… He gags again.

“I’m raising one toddler,” Evan says. “I don’t need a second toddler.”

“I’m not a _toddler_! I’m sick!”

“What are you sick with?”

“I’m fucked in the head!”

“In what way, though?” Evan demands. “You said it yourself, the psych ward cleared you, your therapist cleared you — yeah, sure, you’re depressed, you’re traumatized, you’re weaning off cocaine, I get it, but you can eat a piece of toast! You know what’s wrong with you? You’re way too fucking stubborn, that’s what’s wrong with you!”

“I’m glad you’re such an expert on all the things that are wrong with me! ‘Cos I really needed more of those!”

“Just eat the motherfucking godforsaken toast,” Evan begs him. “Just one piece of toast. Prove to me you wanna live, you wanna fight, eat some fucking toast.”

Amir hatefully snatches the toast from his hand and shoves half of it into his mouth, chewing without tasting. He swallows it, makes a face, and goes back to his coffee.

“Thank you,” Evan says. He leaves him and goes back into the dining room, the silence from which is deafening.

Amir feels a lot of things: loved, comforted, ashamed, attacked, exposed. He slides down the cabinets and sits on the floor, trying to stop trembling so much.

The rest of the toast is still in his hand. He finishes it, more out of spite than anything. He’ll show Evan who can’t eat toast for April. _And_ he’ll do it sober, so they can’t keep him from her.

*

Louis comes downstairs around three. Amir is sitting with April in the breakfast nook, reading The Guermantes Way volume of Proust’s _In Search of Lost Time_ out loud to her, when Evan and Louis descend on him like a pair of stormtroopers.

Amir looks up at them, and April makes grabby hands at Evan. Evan looks uneasily at Amir, who nods, like, yes, you may take our daughter from me, but thank you for being apprehensive about doing so.

Evan picks April up, cooing to her about how it’s time for Miss April to have her afternoon nap, and carries her away. Louis sits down in the booth bench seat across from Amir. The afternoon sun shines golden over him; he looks healthier than he did yesterday. Amir wonders if that’s because he came home, and feels a pang of guilt mixed up with relief.

“What’s up?” Amir says. “You’re out of bed.”

“Doctor told me I should try and move around a bit today, if I feel up to it.” Louis hands him a pen and notepad. “Can you do somethin’ for me?”

“Yeah,” Amir says, picking up the pen. His right hand cramps, and he swears and drops it, grabbing at his right hand with his left.

“Nerve pain?” Louis says sympathetically.

“Yeah, but it’ll pass.”

“Alright, well, I was just gonna ask if you could go ahead and make a list of all the drugs you’ve been doing, when you’ve last done them, all that. Just so we can get an idea.”

Amir starts, his face heating up. “Seriously?”

“Look, love, I know how hard it is to quit this shit. You’ll need our help and support, and we can’t help you if we dunno owt.” Louis gives him a beseeching look. “Evan can’t trust you, right now. Transparency builds trust. Alright?”

“I told him I’m sick of this shit,” Amir says, staring Louis down. “And I told Mia too. I’m sick of you ganging up on me, I won’t put up with it!”

“We’re not ganging up on you.” Louis sounds eerily calm, like he’s not actually so calm underneath. “We’re a team with you. But you ‘ave to work with us.”

“I don’t want to be a team! I want you to give me my baby and back the fuck off for a while!”

“Amir, you’ve been with her for hours.”

“ _Hours_?” He wipes his eyes. “I haven’t seen her in six months!”

“That was your choice. We begged you not to go, and we begged you to come back. We do nothing but give you chances.”

“And at the end of the day it doesn’t even matter, ‘cos I feel like a fuck-up who’s not wanted, and I always will!”

“Then that’s a you problem,” Louis says, reaching out and poking him in the chest. “Your daughter wants you here. We want you here. We’re trying to work with you _because_ we want you here. I know we’re not none of us perfect, but people don’t try to meet you in the middle over and over when they don’t want you around, love.”

Amir thinks of what Zayn said.

“You’re in a vulnerable place right now,” Louis says. “The first days and weeks of quitting anything are the hardest, you know this, you know what you’re going through right now better than anyone. You need support, and accountability, and we’re here to provide that.” He taps the paper. “All the drugs you’ve done since you left. And I want to go through your contacts list in your phone with you, we’re gonna block all the plugs and then delete their contact info. Alright?”

“Okay,” Amir says numbly.

“Only if you want to, though. D’you want to?”

“I want to get clean.”

“I know you do,” Louis says. “So can we do this?”

Amir begrudgingly picks up the pen and starts writing. He’s still writing when Evan joins them, sliding into the booth next to Louis and leaning his elbows on the table.

“Here,” Amir says, slapping the pen down over the paper and shoving it at them. “Done.”

_BENZOS/XANS: Snorted/taken orally. Last used yesterday. Daily use_

_MARIJUANA: Smoked. Last used July 10. Daily use_

_ALCOHOL: Drank it. Last used July 9. Frequent use_

_COCAINE: Snorted. Last used July 8. Daily use_

_OPIOIDS: Taken orally. Used for pain. Last used yesterday. Frequent use_

_MOLLY/E: Taken orally. Last used a couple weeks ago (don’t know what day). Frequent use_

_ADDY: Snorted. Last used a few weeks ago. Frequent use_

_KET: Snorted. Last used about a month ago. Rarely used_

_WHIPPITS: Snorted. Last used about a month ago. Rarely used_

_LEAN: Drank it. Last used in June. Occasional use_

_SHROOMS/ACID: Taken orally. Last used in June. Occasional use_

_SPICE: Smoked by accident in May. Never again, it sucked_

_DMT/AYAHUASCA: Smoked in April. It also sucked, don’t plan on doing it again_

“Jesus,” Evan says as he reads over Louis’ shoulder. “This is like, a glossary of drugs.”

“Please, like you’ve never done any drugs,” Amir snaps.

Louis holds his finger up. “Stop,” he says to both of them. To Amir, he says, “This everything?”

“I think so, yeah.”

“How’d you _accidentally_ do spice?”

“I thought it was weed,” Amir says.

To his surprise, Louis laughs. “We won’t hold that one against you, then,” he says.

Amir smiles at Louis, who smiles back. Evan, meanwhile, is still staring at the list with a knit brow.

“I think you should go to rehab,” he says abruptly.

Amir’s heart drops. “What? No!”

“I’ve been thinking that since you got back,” Evan says. “I dunno how you’re gonna kick this unless you do. I feel overwhelmed just looking at this, dude.”

“Please,” Amir begs them. “Please don’t send me away and let them lock me up, seriously. It would be just like the psych ward. I can’t do that again, I just want to be here with you guys. I’ve finally accepted this is where I need to be, and you want to send me away again? This isn’t fair!”

Louis holds his hand up. “No one’s sending you away,” he says gently. He reaches out for Amir’s hand and takes it in both of his own, squeezing him. “We just want what’s best for you. This is gonna be really hard for you, it’d be hard for anyone, and it might be better for you to be somewhere where they know how to handle it, that’s all Evan is saying.”

“No, he’s trying to get rid of me,” Amir says, staring daggers at Evan, who throws his hands in the air.

“Okay, let’s not be melodramatic,” Louis says. “Evan’s been waiting for you to come home for six months. He loves you very much. He just doesn’t want you to die of a drug overdose, that’s all.”

“I know how not to die!” Amir exclaims.

Louis sighs. “You can pretty easily kill yourself with Xanax, love, and with combos of uppers and downers. D’you know how many musicians have died off Xanax, and off speedballs?”

“ _I don’t do heroin!_ You guys act like I’m lying in an alley with a needle in my arm!”

“Jason told us you guys were snorting _grams_ of cocaine a day,” Evan says. “Like, multiple grams.”

Jason, that fucking narc. “That’s true,” Amir says, thinking longingly of cocaine.

“How were you even affording that?” Louis says, squinting at him. “That’s thousands of dollars, yeah?”

“I mean, I’m pretty much broke at this point, for the record. But Jason was picking up the bill for the drugs, most of the time,” Amir says. “My job was mostly to introduce him to people, get him into clubs, and, uh…”

“Use yourself as bait to get him laid, yeah, he told us,” Louis says, letting go of his hand. “No details necessary. Cheers.”

“Don’t make me sound like a prostitute, Jesus, I was just redirecting my groupies to him.”

“I’m familiar with the practice,” Louis says, wincing. “Please just stop talking about it.”

“And again, for the record, I never cheated on you,” Amir says to Evan.

Evan sighs through his nose. “You know, the funny thing is, I actually believe you about that,” he says. “But it doesn’t help with the rock I have in my gut from looking at _this_.” He shakes the paper. “I’d almost rather hear that you cheated on me.”

“Evan, come on!”

“Amir,” Louis breaks in, “I just wanna say, I appreciate your candor, here. Thank you. You didn’t have to tell us all this shit, but you did. And we’re not here to force you into anything.”

“Okay,” Amir says warily.

“Why don’t we take a week or so? You let us know how you feel,” Louis says, searching his face. “If you feel like you can’t do this on your own, let us know, we’ll talk next steps.”

Amir nods. That seems like the best compromise he’s going to get, for now.

“The nice thing is,” Louis says, “the information we’ve been gettin’ from the people around you indicates that you’re, er, quite shit at hiding your drug use.”

Amir splutters out a laugh.

“Not sneaky at all,” Louis continues, and Evan laughs, too. “So if you were to somehow get your hands on coke out here in the middle of nowhere… and we haven’t got any in the house, by the way —“

“Wasn’t expecting you did.”

“— we’d probably twig immediately.”

“Good to know,” Amir says.

“When are you gonna stop doing Xanax?” Evan says. “You say you haven’t stopped, but you also say you were abusing it.”

“When I feel less shitty from getting off coke!”

“When will that be?” Evan says.

“I feel like you guys don’t get it. I didn’t want to become this person, okay? I just wanted to feel something, and I had to be able to get out of my head to perform. And then I went from wanting it to needing it, and now I’m trying to fix that. That’s all.”

Louis nods, gazing at him. “We know,” he says.

Evan is looking out the window, worrying at his lip with his teeth.

*

Amir and Evan very awkwardly join forces to help make lunch for April, bumping into each other over and over as they maneuver around the kitchen, talking over each other, hesitating. April seems happy to see them together — either that, or she’s just happy about lunch. It’s hard to tell at that age.

“She has a speech therapist appointment tomorrow,” Evan says, drying his hands on a dish towel. “I took off work this week, so I was gonna go, if you wanted to come with me… your dad usually goes, but he can’t, so.”

“Wait, you took off work?”

“Yeah, Amir, obviously. It’s Monday, today.”

“Is it?”

“Yes,” Evan says, looking impatient.

“Why’d you take off? ‘Cos of me?”

“Why else?”

“I dunno!”

“I didn’t make the call ‘til this morning,” Evan says. “I explained what’s going on to my boss, and she told me I should take some time. I thought I might go in today, but I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

Of course he didn’t — they stayed up arguing until 1:30, just rehashing the same shit over and over.

“Well, yeah, I’d like to go,” Amir says. “Of course.”

“Okay. Good.”

This is also awkward, so Amir leaves at the first opportunity and heads down the hall to the den, where Mia and Sunday are watching TV. He doesn’t feel like things are quite right yet between himself and Mia, and he hasn’t even talked to Sunday yet, but he figures he had better just throw himself into it instead of avoiding them.

Plus, he’s missed them both, a lot. He isn’t even really upset with Sunday, though he knows she’s upset with him, because she hasn’t reached out once since he left, but that’s fine. Amir knows she’s sensitive on the topic of abandoned daughters, and he wouldn’t expect her to get why he left.

Sunday wasn’t at the intervention, either, which gives her points in his book. She was busy with horse stuff, but Amir likes to think she wouldn’t have come even if she hadn’t been. An intervention isn’t Sunday’s style.

In many ways, the intervention was the final straw for Amir. He thought he was just visiting his dad, sisters and Harry one last time before he left on tour, but instead he got ambushed by Evan, Mia, Harry, Zayn, Louis, Liam, even _Niall_ , all the way from _Ireland_ , telling him he was in no shape to go on tour in his “weakened state” and that Jeff was manipulating him. Like he was a fragile little flower who couldn’t decide these things for himself.

And who cares if they were right in the end? They were still sanctimonious dicks about it. They still made him feel like an idiot and helpless child, as if he wasn’t a grown man with a husband and a baby, who had cultivated respect from esteemed musicians and interest from a dozen labels. So what if he lashed out at them in really personal ways, designed to hit them each where it hurt the most? Amir felt bad, of course, but he also felt invigorated. Some of that shit, he’d been waiting a lifetime to say.

He and Evan had taken separate flights back from Malibu, after Amir said his piece and stormed out of Zayn’s house. Once home, they didn’t speak until Amir left for the tour. Amir kissed and hugged April goodbye while Evan stood stone-faced in the background.

Amir walks into the den with confidence, but he sits in a pouf near the couch, instead of on the couch with Sunday and Mia. They mute the TV, which is playing some Love Island-esque show, and look at him expectantly.

“Hi,” he says. “What, can I not be in here?”

“No,” Sunday says, “it’s just we literally haven’t spoken in six months.”

“Well, hi,” Amir says to her.

She looks nonplussed. “Hi?”

“Are you gonna make this a whole _thing_?”

Mia is looking back and forth between them like they’re tennis.

“I mean, I’m pissed at you,” Sunday says.

“Join the club.”

Sunday appears to struggle for words. “So, what, you’re just going to bully me into not being angry at you anymore?”

“No,” Amir says. “You can be mad if you want. But we can hang out while you’re mad, right?”

“I _guess_.”

“Mia’s not mad at me anymore,” Amir says, smiling winningly at her.

“Yes I am!” Mia exclaims. “Just ‘cos we talked things out doesn’t mean I’m not mad.”

“Well, I’m still mad at _you_ , so.”

“What the fuck are you mad at me for?”

“All the shit we talked about!”

Sunday looks up at the TV and exhales. “I hate this,” she says, wringing her hands in her lap. “I hate conflict.”

“It’s part of life, baby,” Amir says.

“That doesn’t mean I have to like it!”

“Didn’t say it did.”

“Are you and Evan getting back together or not?” Mia asks Amir, point-blank. “We heard you fighting all night last night.”

Amir shrugs. “I dunno.”

“Are you together right now?”

“I mean, we’re married.”

“But are you _together_ together?”

“I dunno.”

“I think you should try,” Sunday mutters. “For April’s sake.”

“I guess,” Amir says, thinking of his parents.

“Do you think you guys were just too young to have a baby?” Sunday asks him. She must also be thinking of her parents.

“I don’t think so,” Amir says honestly. “All that shit happened ‘cos I went crazy, not ‘cos I was twenty-three. I probably still would have gone crazy if I was thirty.”

“Maybe not, though,” Mia counters. “The brain finishes developing at twenty-five, right?”

“So you think we should have waited ‘til we were both twenty-five?”

“I mean, that’s what I’d do,” Mia says.

“We weren’t trying to get pregnant,” Amir says. “It just happened, and we wanted her, so we kept her. That’s it.”

“I know,” Mia says.

“I don’t really care if I was ready to be a dad. I _am_ a dad.”

“I know!”

They’ve discussed this at length, of course. Mia was the first person he told, even before he told Evan— he called her from the bathroom with the stick in his hand. Louis was the third person, over text, because he was in a Kosmonauta meeting at the time. Some guy playing the trumpet on Seventh Street was the fourth, because Evan and Amir ran past him on their way to go celebrate, and they were too excited not to shout it aloud to someone. He played a few bars of _When The Saints Go Marching In_ in response.

Zayn was something like the twentieth person. Amir really, really hadn’t wanted to tell him; he waited until he saw him in person.

After Amir told him, he sat there in silence for a long moment, then said in a strained voice: “Congratulations, love… just make sure you don’t throw your career away, yeah? We can help you pay for round-the-clock help.” The first time he looked happy about being a grandfather was when he first held April after she was born.

“I don’t think I want kids,” Sunday says, looking pensive.

“Really?” Mia says to her.

She shrugs. “I’ve thought a lot about it. I just don’t see it for me.”

“Damn,” Mia says.

“I’m okay just being an aunt,” she assures them.

“You might change your mind,” Mia says.

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, then you better be careful with Julio,” Mia says. “He’s an omega, _and_ he’s Catholic.”

Sunday coughs out a laugh. “We don’t do anything that he could get pregnant from, don’t worry.”

“Alright,” Mia says dubiously.

“I mean, what, are _you_ gonna have kids?” Sunday says.

Mia shrugs. “Me and Aya always talked about that,” she says. “She’s like, the one person I could see myself doing that with… and she’s an alpha, so we could.”

“Aya?” Amir says, squinting at her.

“Oh, that’s right, you don’t know about this,” Mia says. “She showed up out of the blue, she wants to get back together.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, she wants me to come to Germany with her. I’ve been talking with Sunday about if I should do it.”

“What about the team?”

Mia shrugs. “I might take this season off, or just straight up retire,” she says. “My weight is down, and my head just isn’t in it.”

Something about the way she says this sounds accusatory, like it’s Amir’s fault that her weight is down and her head isn’t in it.

“What happened to Katarina?” Amir says, feeling totally out of the loop.

“Katarina was being abusive,” Sunday says quietly.

Amir looks in shock at Mia, who puts her hands up. “Let’s not go into, like, psych-major speak about it,” she says, sounding annoyed. “She sucked and was a dickhead, and we’re over. That’s all.”

“Abusive how?” Amir demands.

Sunday starts to respond, but Mia stops her. “You don’t get to do this,” she says to Amir, suddenly furious. “You don’t get to waltz in here after six months you spent ignoring us and making us worry about you day in and day out, and get all protective over _me_.”

“Mia, that’s not fair.”

“Yes it is. It is fair. You don’t get to hassle me after you freaked out on me for being worried about you.”

“Because I’m not being condescending and controlling about it!”

“You _would_ be,” Mia says.

“If what?”

“If I gave you details!”

“What are the details?” Amir exclaims, worried now. “What did she do to you?”

“Nothing! She smacked me around a little! I smacked her back! We got the cops called on us, that was the last straw for me, I kicked her out, dunno where the fuck she is now, and I don’t give a fuck.” Mia’s face is brick red. She exhales a long, thin breath. “Are you happy?”

“No,” Amir says, feeling a mix of anger toward Katarina and guilt over his failures as a brother. Yeah, Mia can be an asshole, and she should have known how angry he’d be about the intervention, but the idea of her not telling him she was getting hit by her girlfriend makes him sick. “Why am I just now finding out about this, what the fuck?”

“Well, that’s what you get,” Mia spits at him. She gets up, crossing her arms over her chest. “We didn’t just sit here in a holding pattern, like we were toys waiting for you to come back and play with us. People exist outside of you, Amir, we have our own lives.”

“I know that!”

“Sometimes I don’t think you do!” Mia screams at him.

“So it’s _my_ fault your girlfriend hit you?”

“No, but you don’t get to be upset about it when you weren’t here for me to talk to!”

“Then you don’t get to be upset about me leaving when you admitted you didn’t know how to talk to me about what I was going through!” Amir screams back, suddenly furious. “Fucking hypocrite!”

“I at least tried!” Mia cries. “I texted you! I called you! I left voicemails! We all did! Even though we were so angry at you, we never once abandoned you! But you abandoned us!”

“I didn’t abandon you, you’re a grown adult! I had to go no-contact for the sake of my sanity!”

“Stop saying no-contact like we’re all abusive narcissists or something! And what, is your eighteen-month old daughter a grown adult, too?”

“Fuck you. Fuck you for even saying that, I contacted her.”

“She’s a deaf toddler, Amir, FaceTiming her was never gonna be a replacement for seeing her!”

“God, I bet you wish I was dead,” Amir spits. “You, Dad, Evan, you all wish so bad that I would have just gone ahead and offed myself so you could all sit around and feel so sorry for yourselves, you fucking martyrs, and take April for yourselves, and not worry about horrible Amir anymore —”

“Are you _insane_? Have you _lost your fucking mind_? Every day of my life for the last year and a half, _all I’ve done_ is worry about you killing yourself!” Mia howls, her voice ragged. “I am _exhausted_ from it! I have nightmares about it all the time! Every time my phone rings, I jump out of my skin! Every day I relive the day that the cops told us what happened, that you could have been pancaked by a fucking semi! Every single day, me, Dad, and Evan, we think about that! We can’t ever get away from it!”

Amir would respond, but he’s too busy crying into his hands, his back heaving with repressed sobs.

“Do you even have any idea how much Dad loves you, and how much he worries about you? I’ve barely seen him laugh this year! _Dad!_ Dad who always looks on the bright side of everything, he’s been a fucking zombie! He’s so out of it, he got serious pneumonia and didn’t even realize it, because you being gone was _killing him_! The one thing he can’t handle, being abandoned, you did that to him! When all he ever did was love and support you!” She’s crying, too.

“Please stop,” Amir begs her, crying harder. “Please, Mia, please.”

Mia does stop. The three of them sit there in a silence so total and absolute that it almost has a sound of its own.

“You have no idea,” she says stiffly. “You hurt us all, so much, and you still think we don’t care. What would it take for you to understand how much we love you? Do I have to open a fucking vein? Do I have to give you a kidney?”

A hand lands on Amir’s back, but he knows it can’t be Mia’s, because her voice is still coming from across the room. He peeks out from the corner of his tear-soaked palm and sees Sunday. She isn’t making eye contact with him, she’s staring at the floor, but she’s petting him as she does it. She strokes his hair.

“Mia,” Sunday says in a soft voice, “it’s okay.”

“No it’s not,” Mia chokes out.

“It is. He’s home now. He wants to get better.”

“Sunday…” Mia huffs a sigh. “You haven’t even been home lately, either. You have no idea what I’ve been dealing with.”

“Go to Germany, then,” Sunday suggests, smoothing Amir’s hair back from his forehead. He reaches up and grabs her around the waist, hugging her, burying his face in her abdomen.

“Huh?” Mia says.

“Go to Germany. Be with Aya. You’ve done more than enough, here. Go be selfish for a while. You’ve been acting like a third parent for so long, it isn’t fair… we all think so. None of us would hold it against you if you went.”

“But what if something happens while I’m gone?”

“You can’t stop bad things from happening all by yourself. You have to live your life.”

Mia seems to be at a loss for words, which is unusual. Amir lets go of Sunday and wipes his eyes; she hands him a tissue.

“Thanks,” he sniffs. “I think I got snot on your shirt.”

“That’s okay, it already had horse slobber on it.”

“Ew,” Amir says, and she laughs.

“Do you think _I’m_ selfish, for pursuing my dreams?” Sunday says to Mia.

“No, of course not.”

“Then why would you be selfish for pursuing yours?”

“Well, no offense, but taking care of all of us has never, been, like, your role.”

“It shouldn’t be yours either,” Sunday says conversationally. “We’re all adults now.”

“And,” Mia adds, ignoring her, “you’re trying to qualify for the Olympics. I’m a washed-up loser who’s, what, following my ex-girlfriend to Europe?”

“Be less hard on yourself,” Sunday says. “You knew you couldn’t play soccer forever, right? So you’re looking to make a career transition… it happens. I’ll go through that someday, too, I can’t do what I’m doing forever either.”

She sounds so even-keeled and mature that Amir is comforted by listening to her talk.

“I want you to be happy, Mia,” he says, wiping at his cheeks. “I — I’m sorry if me leaving made you feel like you had to trap yourself here. I didn’t leave because I wanted to do that to you, I left ‘cos I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I had to do something drastic.”

“You didn’t expect that I would take on that responsibility?”

“Sorry if this hurts your feelings, but I legit didn’t even think about it,” Amir admits. “I just had to get out. I had nothing to live for besides April, and I felt like no one even wanted me to be her dad. I wasn’t even allowed to be alone with her.”

“Amir, your psychiatrist and CPS wouldn’t even _allow_ it, for the first two months after you got out of the hospital! Evan would have literally been breaking the law to leave you alone with her, she could have been taken away from you guys and put in a foster home! And then everyone was telling him to wait until you’d been stable for a year ‘til he stopped having someone else in the house just to keep an eye on things. I know that must have felt horrible, but he didn’t know what the best thing to do was. It wasn’t that he didn’t want you to be her dad. He knew you were a wonderful dad.”

 _Were,_ past tense. That stings like salt in a cut, even if it wasn’t intentional.

“I know,” Amir mutters. “I know, I know, I’m a problem, everyone was just doing their best to solve the problem of me, I get it.”

Mia talking about these events with such authority, confidence and specificity gets his back up. 2041 is mostly a haze in Amir’s mind, like he drove into a fog bank and stayed there for months, peering desperately through his windshield, waiting for it to break. His memories feel like a broken funhouse mirror.

“That isn’t what we think,” Sunday says, stroking his hair some more. “Stop being a baby.”

Amir looks at her, then starts laughing. She smiles at him, then the smile fades as she says, “Never leave April like that again. Okay?”

Amir’s own smile fades too. “Okay,” he says, cowed by the fixity of her gaze.

“We should all go to therapy,” Sunday says. “Like, together. A big family therapy session.”

Mia shudders at this.

“Didn’t you used to be really pro-therapy?” Sunday asks her.

“I am pro-therapy,” Mia says. “But it’s not the solution to everything, and if you’d ever been to therapy, you’d know that what you’re describing is a nightmare. And also, I don’t trust Amir not to try to get the therapist on his side.”

“What!” Amir exclaims.

“Come on,” Mia says to him, looking weary. “You know how it goes… Evan even said this to me, and I defended you, but you know what? He has a point. You’re charming, and charismatic, and you’re good at winning people over. You’ve always been like that.”

“What, are you not on my side?” Amir demands, feeling stung.

“Of course I am, Amir. It’s just I don’t want you to sabotage your own recovery by convincing us to gloss over things that have to be addressed. You did that exact thing for years — you managed to hide the fact that you were steadily using more and more coke and Adderall, you manipulated us into not worrying about it, up until you left for tour and immediately spiraled out.”

“Maybe you need to just wise up and stop being so easy to manipulate,” Amir says, but then he thinks with a flash of guilt about how he seduced Evan last night. “And I never did coke around the baby, or when I was pregnant, so you’re wrong about that, too.”

(A half-lie. Amir started doing Adderall again about a month after he left the psych ward — both because he was sleep deprived from the baby, and because he just wanted to feel something. He didn’t _snort_ it, though, he just took it, so he feels like that doesn’t count.)

Mia just looks at him impassively, then says to Sunday, “ _He_ needs therapy. And he needs it with some giant, scary, like, ex-drill sergeant who only likes women, and doesn’t think he’s attractive, and will do shadow work with him. I say this for your own good,” she adds, addressing Amir. “I don’t want you to waste your time without someone who’s gonna just kiss your ass, take your money, and not actually help you feel better.”

“Well, thank you so much.”

Mia comes over to him and cups his face in her hands. “You’re my little brother, and I love you, and I always will. But I need a drink now, and for you to leave me alone for a few hours.”

“Maybe I want you to leave _me_ alone,” he says churlishly, scowling at her.

Mia kisses him on the forehead. “Cool, then it’s a deal.”

*

Niall calls Liam for an update while he’s deep in the walk-in closet, pretending to be collecting old clothes to auction off for charity like Louis has been asking him to do for months, but actually just hiding out so he can breathe deeply for the first time all day.

“No update since I texted you this morning, really,” Liam says, sorting through racks of jackets. “Well, that’s not true — Evan and Tommo sort of sat him down and had it out with him over his drug use, and like, worked on figuring out if he’s going to rehab or not.”

“Is he?”

“Not sure. And Paddy was a bit of a prick this morning, I had to take him aside and set him straight. But other than that, nothing significant.”

“Prick how?”

“Oh, just, you know how he is. His mouth is faster than his brain, and he thinks he’s the funniest person in the world.” Liam holds a jacket up to himself, wondering when he bought it, because it isn’t his style at all, but it’s not Louis’ size. Maybe it was a gift. Into the donation bag it goes. “Amir doesn’t help himself, though… talking to him’s like petting a porcupine.”

“Yeah, I can imagine.”

“Everything he says to me just sets my teeth on edge,” Liam says. “I dunno why. I love the kid to death, mind, I really do. It’s just, y’know...”

“Well, you’re angry at him, ‘cos of all the pain he’s caused Lou,” Niall says reasonably.

Liam sighs and starts going through a box of watches, kneeling on the floor, setting the phone down on speaker on a shelf. “I reckon. It’s just been this rollercoaster, the past week or so… Amir’s been like a bad boyfriend, almost, the way he’s jerking Louis around emotionally.”

“So... like Zayn, then?” Niall says.

Liam looks up from the box of watches. “Oh,” he says. “Yeah. That hadn’t even occurred to me.”

“How on earth did _that_ not occur to you, lad?”

“Dunno. You think that’s why I’m angry at Amir?”

“Probably a decent part of it, yeah.”

“Ooh, I don’t like that,” Liam says, making a face.

“I don’t mean it in an Oedipal way.”

“Who’s that? Wait, no, I know. He fucks his mum.”

“Kills his dad and fucks his mum, yes.”

“I didn’t think you meant it in an Oedipal way,” Liam says. “No, I meant I’m, er. I meant that maybe I need to take a step back from this, a bit.”

“I mean, think about how you felt after Louis left you to go back to Zayn,” Niall says conversationally, like they’re discussing football scores. “And you felt like Zayn wasn’t a fit husband, but there was nothing you could do about it, you could only watch from a distance while he hurt Louis? And you just bottled up all the rage and hurt and betrayal you felt about it? Maybe you’re projecting that onto Amir now.”

Liam sucks in air through his teeth. “Right. Okay, now I feel like a dickhead.”

“No, no, not what I meant.”

“I am being a bit of a dick, though, yeah?”

“If you’re thinking of Amir as Zayn, you’re maybe bein’ a wee unfair to Amir, yeah,” Niall says.

“Ah, shit,” Liam says.

“Hey, look, I’d do the same thing.”

“You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”

“Hmm,” Niall says evasively. “Well, I really don’t know what I’d do in this situation, to tell you t’ truth. Jamie’s a very easy kid, knock wood. So far, anyway. I can’t really imagine him acting up, though. He’s just so chill. Doesn’t even have Win’s Scottish temper.”

“Chip off the old block. Yeah, you’re the perfect little family,” Liam says, feeling a weird pang of jealousy that comes out of nowhere and quickly vanishes. “That’ll come in handy when you run for PM.”

“Taoiseach. Fuck no, not enough money in the world to make me take that job.”

“It’d be such a laugh, though,” Liam says.

“Right, good reason to run for public office,” Niall says, chuckling. “For a laugh.”

“Exactly. You’d win if you ran, is the funny thing.”

“Is that your professional opinion? Have you some internal polling to back that up?”

“I dunno what internal polling is,” Liam says, sniffing the armpit of a button-down and making a face. “But yes.”

To make amends for his stepfatherly crimes, Liam makes peanut butter toast for Amir when he rings off with Niall, then brings it to him. He finds him in his room, sitting on the floor with his back against the bed, shaking and holding onto his own shoulders.

“Oi,” Liam says gently.

Amir looks at him. His eyes are rimmed with red and glassy, like he’s been crying again. Everyone else is out by the pool, even Louis, who got special dispensation from Liam to go dip his feet in the shallow end and sit in the sun as it goes down over the hills. Amir didn’t want to come — he said he wasn’t feeling up to it.

“Hi,” Amir says.

“These withdrawals are just kicking your arse, aren’t they?”

Amir nods.

“I made you, er, peanut butter toast,” Liam says. “And now that I’m saying this, I’m realizing I dunno if you’ve eaten peanut butter toast more than once in the last fifteen years, but you used to like it.”

Amir looks moved by this. “I still like it,” he says quietly.

“Good. I cut the toast into soldiers so they’re easier to eat, and I brought you oat milk.”

“Can you sit with me?” Amir says.

Liam nods. He goes over to Amir and sets the plate and glass down next to him, then leans over his bed to grab a pillow so he can stuff it behind his lower back as he leans against the bed. Amir reaches for the glass, then hesitates.

“This is really embarrassing,” he says, “but, uh, I think my hands are shaking too much...”

Without a second thought, Liam picks up the glass for him and holds it to his lips, tilting it so he can drink.

Amir does, then mutters a thank you and leans his head back against the bed. “I hate being helpless,” he mutters.

“I know,” Liam says. “I remember how much you hated being sick as a kid. Remember when you had the stomach flu and you hid it from us?”

Amir starts laughing.

“You put a rug over it, didn’t you, when you puked on your floor? Shit plan all around. Absolutely no thought went into that.”

“I didn’t know how to clean it,” Amir says, laughing so hard he wheezes. “I thought it would just go away.”

“We would’ve let you go to school, too, if you hadn’t thrown up in the car!”

Amir wheezes more, bending over, shaking with laughter. “Right on the back of your head.”

“On the back of my head,” Liam affirms. “Horrifying moment, for me.”

“Sorry about that.”

“You’re forgiven.”

Amir’s quiet for a while. “I keep thinking I shouldn’t have come home,” he mutters.

“No,” Liam says firmly. “You should have, and we’re all glad you did. It’s just hard right now. You knew it was gonna be hard. You didn’t come here not knowing that, alright? You’re a smart kid.”

Amir laughs.

“Listen, everyone goes through this sort of thing, alright? People have bad days, months, years. People feel like they fucked their whole life and no one will ever forgive them. People get in a hole so dark they can’t see out of it, they hate everyone they know, they feel like their life’s been ruined.”

“Do ‘people’?” Amir says, giving Liam a sideways look of curiosity.

Liam ignores this. “But guess what?” He spreads his hands. “Sun keeps coming out. Every day, the sun comes out, and you’re lucky to be alive. You take tiny little baby steps toward feeling better, and then one day, you do.”

“What day?” Amir says hoarsely. “I’ll put it on my calendar.”

Liam laughs and tousles his hair. “It’ll come. But in the meantime, you have to eat some food, so you can live to see it.”

Amir reaches a shaky hand down and picks up a toast soldier, then brings it to his mouth and eats it.

“That’s what I like to see,” Liam says, smiling.

Amir swallows and says, “Is April by the pool?”

“Yeah. Mims and the boys have been trying to teach her to swim a bit.” Liam studies him. “D’you wanna go down there?”

Amir’s face flushes, and tears rise in his eyes. “I want to,” he says. “I don’t think I have the energy, though.”

“Well, that’s alright. Pool ain’t going nowhere, there’ll be other nights this summer.”

Amir laughs and presses his sleeve to his eyes. “Yeah.”

“Take your time. It’s alright.”

“I know.”

Liam nudges the plate toward him, and Amir takes another toast soldier. “How much d’you weigh, these days?”

Amir sighs. “I don’t really know. Last time I checked, I was like, one thirty-seven.”

“That’s not bad, for you.”

“Well, I had to eat on tour, otherwise I’d get dizzy trying to perform.”

“Yeah, I’ve been there. Your dad’s close to your weight right now, actually, but on him it looks like he’s wasting away.”

Amir swallows the toast. “We’re built differently.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m probably more like one thirty-four now, though.”

“You should start weighing yourself weekly,” Liam says. “And once you’re feeling up to it, you should work out with me. I’m serious when I say it makes your brain be less of a dick. I’m saying this from experience.”

“Are you really?” Amir says. “Do you actually work out to not be depressed?”

“Of course.”

“Wow. This whole time I’ve been making fun of you, thinking you were just vain.”

“I’m also vain,” Liam admits.

Amir laughs.

“No, but let’s get into a routine together. I’ll take it easy on you, I won’t push you too hard. I’ll make you milkshakes with protein powder, so you can get some gains. Weren’t you feeling better when you started going to the gym in college?”

“I honestly don’t remember,” Amir says. “Probably, but my life was so different then.”

“It’ll help. I promise. Your body wants to do things, and not in the torturous, touring sort of way. It wants to move around freely and joyfully. It wants to jump, and run, and dance.”

Amir subtly rolls his eyes. “I’m absolutely not dancing,” he says. “I’ll work out with you _once_ , I promise. No guarantees after that.”

“That’s all I need.”

SACRAMENTO, JULY 15, 2042

When Louis walks Amir and Evan out to the Range Rover the next morning, they seem to realize at the same time that they’re going to have to sit alone in a car together for thirty minutes.

Louis watches as Amir shifts April on his hip, then looks at Evan. Evan stares at the car itself, like it’s trying to trick him.

“Uh, your dad usually sits in the driver’s seat,” he says to Amir. “I should do that, though, you’re not in any shape to drive if the autopilot fails or something.”

Amir makes a face at this comment, but lets it go by unaddressed. “I can sit in the back with her, it’s fine,” he says.

“Or, hear me out, you could put ‘er in the back, and sit in the passenger seat,” Louis suggests.

“I guess,” Amir says, looking queasy.

“You’ll figure it out,” Louis says with confidence. “I’m going back to bed. Text me when you get there.”

He leaves them to their awkwardness and heads back into the house. Liam is in the kitchen, chopping up tomatoes; Louis sneaks up behind him and wraps his arms around his waist.

“Come back to bed and cuddle me,” he murmurs.

“Alright,” Liam says agreeably. “Just let me put this ratatouille in the oven.”

“What are you making ratatouille at nine in the morning for?”

“‘Cos I’ve got a billion courgettes, tomatoes and aubergines from the greenhouse, and I have to do something with them.”

“Okay.” Louis continues clinging to him as he moves around the kitchen, even as he bends over to put the pan in the oven, until finally Liam turns to him and kisses him.

“Needy,” Liam chides him.

“Don't be rude to me, I’ve got pneumonia.”

“You’re very chipper for someone who’s got pneumonia, mate, I have to say.”

“I really am feeling a lot better,” Louis says, smiling. “It’s those massive fuck-off horse pill antibiotics you’re making me choke down twice a day.”

“Good.” Liam kisses him on the nose.

“I should ring Zayn,” Louis says. “I’ve been texting him, but I think he wants to have an actual chat about things. I was gonna ask him about his experiences with rehab, see if he can talk to Amir about it, sort of give him a primer on what it’s like, so he can make an educated choice.”

“Good idea. After we cuddle, though.”

“Aye, obviously.”

*

Amir and Evan don’t talk until they get on the 5, where they run into construction that’s narrowed it down to two lanes. At the same time and in the same tone of voice, they say, “Are they ever _not_ working on the 5?”

They look at each other and laugh hesitantly.

“The pace of modern life,” Evan intones.

“Yeah. Don’t like it.”

“Me neither.”

They’re quiet for a moment.

“Da,” April calls from the backseat.

“Da,” Amir calls back to her.

She giggles, and Amir turns and smiles at her. He feels a little better today. His cravings for coke are worse, but he’s not shaking as much.

“She likes her speech therapist,” Evan says. He’s holding the wheel, even though the car is driving itself, like he just needs to do something with his hands. “Dr. Heather.”

“Is she a doctor doctor, or a PhD doctor?” Amir says.

“Uh, I dunno.”

“How do you not know?”

“I think a normal doctor,” Evan says defensively. “An audiologist?”

“That’s not a medical doctor.”

“Amir, Jesus, I dunno. She has diplomas on her wall, you can look at them when we go in. I think she’s a pediatrician who’s also a speech therapist, or something.”

“I’m not trying to hassle you,” Amir says, staring out the window at the construction guys in their high-vis vests and helmets.

“I feel a little hassled.”

“She liked her old audiologist, in San Fran.”

“Yeah, but we don’t live on the Bay anymore, so.”

“I know.”

They’re quiet for a while, until the tension has built up to be unbearable.

“What does she like about Dr. Heather?” Amir says.

“Oh, uh, I dunno. She’s just nice, I guess.” Evan taps his thumb against the wheel. “April likes learning stuff, too, she finds it fun.”

“I know she does,” Amir murmurs.

“I know you know, just saying, that might be why. Heather teaches her stuff.”

Amir is hit with a wave of despair, seemingly from nowhere. He hunches his shoulders and leans forward in his seat, lacing his tattooed hands together. “Yeah.”

Evan glances over at him. “You okay?”

He nods. “I’m fine.”

Evan seems to hesitate for a moment before reaching out and gripping his shoulder.

Amir reaches up and takes Evan’s hand in his, squeezing it.

“I’m glad you’re coming today,” Evan says.

“I am too.”

*

If Dr. Heather is shocked to see Amir, she manages to play it off very well. “Wow, is this April’s other daddy?” she says when she comes into her office, pulling the door shut behind her.

“Yeah,” Amir says, standing up. She comes over to him and shakes his hand. “Amir. Hi.”

“Hi!” Heather says. She gives Amir a once-over, which he can’t fault her for — he’s practically sweating coke out of his pores at this point, and he looks like it. “I see the resemblance.”

“Yeah?” Amir looks at April, who’s perched on Evan’s lap. She signs _hi_ to him in her clumsy toddler ASL.

Amir signs back _hi baby_.

“Your ASL is good,” Heather remarks as she goes over to April and picks her up. April seems unperturbed by this. “Do you usually sign with her?”

“Yeah,” Amir says. “I’ve been, uh… away… since right after she got the implant.”

Heather doesn’t seem to care about Amir’s personal life, though he’s sure she probably knows all the dirty details regardless. “So you’re used to exclusively signing with her?”

“Yeah, talking to her is new for me,” Amir says. He remains standing, lingering near the couch Evan is sitting on while Heather does a listening check on April. They don’t look at each other.

April had gotten her implant surgery right before The Intervention. This is part of Amir’s feeling of betrayal — Evan had already known what he was going to subject Amir to, even while they were sitting in the audiologist’s office watching April’s implant be activated, celebrating their daughter being able to hear for the first time.

He stays quiet for the rest of the session, watching April play, and learn, and practice her vowel sounds. Heather asks him a few more questions, which he answers dutifully, and she assigns him some books to read about how to work with April on her speech, as well as a sheet of paper with April’s progress so far laid out in bullet points. Amir takes it and reads it thoroughly before folding it to put in his pocket.

They leave with a lollipop for her and walk out into the steaming parking lot. It’s already a scorcher, even though it’s only 10:30.

Amir is the one to buckle April back into her car seat, giving her a kiss on the head after he’s done so. She tugs on his t-shirt sleeve in response.

He waits until they’re on the road again before asking Evan in a low voice, “Did you plan ahead of time that you were gonna threaten to leave me?”

“Huh?” Evan says, looking taken aback.

“At that little intervention for me. Did you plan that you were going to threaten to divorce me if I left? Or was that a spur of the moment thing?”

“Spur of the moment,” Evan says flatly. “I didn’t mean it, I was just panicking because you weren’t listening to anything we were saying. I wish to God I never said it, I should have known you’d hold it over my head forever. Happy?”

“Not really, but good to know.”

“I felt like I was losing you, and it was the only card I had left. Please don’t hate me for playing it.”

“You know I don’t hate you,” Amir says.

Evan’s quiet for a moment; the only sound is the turn signal clicking. “Can we just try not to be bitter?” he says. “Both of us?”

Before Amir can answer, April yells “Lollipop,” from the backseat.

Amir turns to her and signs _later_.

“Noo,” she cries, signing _now_.

“You could choke on it if I give it to you in the car.”

April starts throwing a tantrum, and Amir sighs and turns around. He doesn’t remember her ever throwing tantrums before he left. The sound of his toddler crying grates on his already-frayed nerves.

“It’ll pass,” Evan says. “She’s just always really tired after speech therapy, it wears her brain out. Once she started flipping out in the parking lot just because your dad put his sunglasses on.”

Amir laughs, then falls quiet. “Did he come with you to all these?”

“Oh, yeah. Almost every single one. He’d even bring her by himself, sometimes, if I had to work.” Evan pauses. “Your dad’s been good to me, this year, way more than he needed to be. He’s really generous.”

“Yeah,” Amir murmurs, feeling inadequate.

*

Louis is reviewing contracts for a female singer-songwriter he started managing last year when Patrick comes into his room, Goose on his heels.

“Hi,” Patrick says, taking a seat on the bed. Goose jumps up beside him and trots over to Louis, trodding on his papers and sniffing his face, then licking his beard.

“Hi hi,” Louis says, petting Goose, who wags his tail frantically. “What’s up?”

Patrick shrugs. “Just saying hi.”

“Hi love. How are you?”

“I’m okay.”

“What are you up to?”

“Nothing,” Patrick says. “I don’t have a lot to do this week, since you’re not going into the office.”

“Sorry about that.”

“It’s okay. I’m just chilling.”

“You should go see some friends,” Louis says. “Get out of this house.”

“I was just out yesterday, though,” Patrick says, laughing. “And I’m tired of driving thirty minutes to see people.”

“You’ll like uni, all your friends’ll be inches away.”

“Yeah, me and Max are actually gonna be right next door to a guy we played basketball with in middle school.”

“Right, he was telling me. You sure you won’t feel like you’ll miss out, not doing the dormitory thing?”

“What, wearing shoes in the shower and living with a rando who sells videos of me being drunk to TMZ?” Patrick wrinkles his nose. “No. I want to live with Max, have parties, and have my own bathroom.”

“Cheers. I get it.”

“If anyone’s selling videos of me to TMZ, it’s gonna be _me_ , under an assumed name,” Patrick adds.

Louis laughs harder. “What are you then, Spider-Man?”

“Yeah! Like Spider-Man.”

Goose pads over to Patrick, who bends down so they can bump noses. Patrick smiles and ruffles his ears.

“He’s gonna miss you so much,” Louis murmurs. “You’re his person.”

“I know,” Patrick sighs. “I’ll come visit him.”

“You know, dogs are good judges of character. Means a lot, if a dog loves you like that.”

“Okay,” Patrick says, like he’s humoring him.

“You know who’s also a good judge of character? Max. And you’re his favorite person, too.”

Patrick rolls onto his back on the bed. Goose lies down beside his head, snuggling him. “What’re you saying?”

“I’m just saying, I know you’ve got a great big sensitive heart, and you armor it loads ‘cos you’re scared. But you’re leaving me soon, so I feel like I have to tell you to let the armor down a little, when you can.”

Patrick rolls his eyes.

“Just some life advice,” Louis says lightly. “Take it or leave it.”

“Is this about Amir?”

“It’s about everything, love.”

“‘Cos Dads already told me to lay off Amir. He said my ‘genre of comedy’ is ‘not appreciated,’” Patrick says, dropping his voice in an imitation of Liam’s.

His Liam impression is impeccable, and extremely funny. Once a few years ago, when they were both reading him the riot act, Patrick started imitating Liam, and Louis had to leave the room so he didn’t piss himself laughing and ruin their united front. Only later that night, when they were in bed, did Liam admit that he had also found this very funny and nearly lost it himself.

“You can feel however you want about the situation,” Louis says. “I’d just say, don’t let your pride drive the car. It’s your choice how you feel about somebody, even family, but you can’t come at it from a place of pride, or you’ll always be putting distance between the two of you. You’ve got to humble yourself a bit.”

“Okay, sensei,” Patrick says, sitting up and giving him a Japanese bow.

“Stop,” Louis says, laughing. “That feels racist.”

“It’s not racist! My friend Tony is Japanese.”

“What, and he gave you the handbook on it?”

“Yes,” Patrick says, dead serious.

“You know where humbleness comes from, yeah? It comes from being genuinely secure in yourself.”

Patrick starts laughing. “What, are you just _roasting_ me, now?”

“No! I wasn’t genuinely secure in myself, at your age. I’m just saying, the sort of thing I’m talking about gets easier with age.”

“What’s Amir’s excuse, then? He’s way older than me.”

“Paddy, he’s been quite badly mentally ill for a while now. I know that sounds like a cop-out, but it’s like askin’ why somebody with a broken leg can’t walk. He’s working on getting better. If you were going through that, wouldn’t you want a bit of patience from us?”

Goose rolls over, and Patrick starts rubbing his belly. “I wouldn’t go through it in the first place. I’m built different.”

Louis laughs. “Okay. But I think you’d want our patience, if you did.”

“Nah. I’d tell you all to fuck off, then go start a cult.”

“Yeah… you really would, wouldn’t you?”

Patrick grins at Louis, then comes over and collapses next to him on the bed, snuggling into his shoulder. Louis presses a kiss to his head.

Evan and Amir get home sometime later, after Patrick has long since left him to go play basketball with Max. They don’t come upstairs to drop off April, which is good, because she should be with her parents, but also, Louis is lonely, and he would like to see April. He’s become listless from a lack of attention by the time Liam comes barging into their room with a phone held aloft, multiple voices on speaker.

“I’ve been rung by Zayn,” he announces, coming over to Louis and leaping nimbly into bed next to him, “who says that you haven’t given him an update, as you promised you would.”

“Oh, Zayn, I’ve completely forgot,” Louis says apologetically.

“I’m that forgettable?” Zayn’s tinny voice rings out.

“No, it’s just we’ve been texting, I didn’t think you needed, like, running color commentary.”

“Louis,” Harry’s voice calls. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

“How is your pneumonia?”

“I’m much better,” Louis says. “Not back to normal, but my doctor says I’m, ah, out of the woods.”

A moment of silence. “Are you making fun of me?” Harry says.

“No, that’s literally the phrase he used,” Liam puts in.

“Everything is about you, Harry,” Louis deadpans. “Everything that’s ever happened, since the dawn of time.”

“Okay, okay, I was only checking.”

“So, update,” Liam says. “Ah… Amir agreed to work out with me. So that’s good.”

Louis squints at him, then carries on as if he hadn’t spoken. “He and Evan are spending time together,” he says. “They took April to speech therapy together this morning, and as far as I know there was no great drama about it. They’re back now, they’re both alive.”

“That’s good,” Zayn says.

“I do still want you to talk to Amir about rehab, but maybe let’s wait ‘til he’s a bit more open to the conversation.”

“Fine with me.”

Louis glances at Liam like, anything else? Liam shrugs.

“How are you lot?” Liam says.

They’re silent, like the question was unexpected.

“Eh, fine?” Zayn says. “How are we?”

“We’re fine,” Harry confirms.

“How are the girls?” Louis says.

“They’re good,” Harry says. “Just doing their usual summer things.”

“They want Amir to come back for a longer visit,” Zayn adds. “But Toni was like, ‘he should probably not be on drugs when he does.’ So he’s to take as long as he needs, he has their permission.”

“Very accomodating of them, much appreciated,” Louis teases.

“They want him to FaceTime them, though,” Harry says.

“I’m sure he’d be more than happy to.”

“How’s he seem?” Zayn says. “Like with the withdrawals… does he seem better, worse?”

“Better,” Louis says. “Definitely better.”

“Good. How’s Yasmeen?”

“Fine,” Louis says. “Her and Sunday went for a hike, they ought to be back around sundown. There’s really nothing I’m not telling you, mate.”

“I know,” Zayn says defensively. “Just a bit on edge, that’s all.”

“I can confirm he’s been on edge,” Harry puts in.

“Go graffiti your driveway,” Louis says.

“I _could_ graffiti the driveway,” Zayn muses.

“No you can’t,” Harry says. “Graffiti anything else.”

Liam clears his throat. “Can we go? Louis is in denial about how much talking tires him out.”

“‘Cos I love talking,” Louis says hoarsely.

“Oh, yeah, go,” Harry says. “We’re just bothering you ‘cos we’ve got nothing to do today.”

“One thing before you go,” Zayn says. “I know he probably doesn’t want to deal with it now, or ever, but Amir has to correct the public record on him.”

“When he’s feeling up to it,” Louis says crossly. “That’s not what we’re worried about right now. There’s always time to stage a comeback, if that’s what he wants.”

“Alright, I’m just saying. You’re seein’ the shit going ‘round about him.”

“I am, and I don’t care. Those people live to talk shit and make things up, you know this.”

“But it reflects on the rest of us,” Zayn says.

“Again, I don’t care,” Louis says fiercely.

Harry’s voice breaks in. “It’s okay,” he says. “I don’t think the coverage is actually as unsympathetic as Zayn thinks, honestly. It’s pretty clear he’s got a drug problem, and the tide has turned since the bit about the psych ward got leaked. Maybe TMZ’s headlines don’t reflect it, but the average person seems to understand that he’s going through something, and they’re just hoping he’s alright… especially his fans. I don’t think we have to worry about his reputation being unsalvageable.”

“Thank you,” Louis says.

“You’re welcome.”

“Wait, Haz,” Louis says. “Have you heard from your boy?”

“My boy?”

“Jeffrey.”

“Oh,” Harry says. He inhales, and there’s a long pause full of phone static. “Er, yeah, we’ve spoken briefly.”

“What’s he have to say for himself?”

“He was apologetic, without really apologizing. He’s sort of taking credit for putting Amir back on the straight and narrow.”

This enrages Louis. “Is he fuckin’ serious?”

“Ye-es,” Harry says, drawing the word out until it’s almost a question.

“He’s not on the straight and narrow, not hardly! He’s got a long road ahead of him! Jeff playin’ his little reindeer games wiv him almost destroyed him!”

“Lou, Lou,” Liam hisses. “Stop yelling. Save your air.”

Zayn, meanwhile, is cracking up laughing. “Sorry,” he says. “‘ _Reindeer games_ ’?”

“Whatever, you know what I mean!”

“Lou, I know,” Harry says, sounding genuinely remorseful. “I do get it. My next album’s on hold, for now… I’m waiting for things to be less, er, fragile before I have a proper talk with him about this.”

“A proper talk, huh? So you’re sticking with him, then?”

“I plan to, yes.”

Louis has a blinding flash of insight, suddenly. “He has shit on you, doesn’t he?”

“What?”

“Dirt. Jeff has loads of dirt on you.”

There’s a second silence, even louder this time.

“Of course he does,” Harry says evenly.

“What, do you think he’d leak it if you left him? Poison the earth?”

“I have no idea. There are actually loads of things he could do to me in retaliation for trashing a twenty-seven year relationship… none of them are good.”

Louis gives Liam a significant look. Liam shrugs and gestures in an _I know, but what did you expect_? sort of way.

“Alright,” he says into the phone. “I get it. Let me go rest my lungs.”

“Feel better,” Harry says, and rings off with him.

Louis tosses the phone onto the bed. “Fuck were they so touchy about?”

Liam starts laughing. “You antagonizing them, maybe?”

“I was not! Please.”

“You really are hard on Harry when you’re angry at him. You know he can’t help being a space alien.”

“He shouldn’t have married my ex-husband, then,” Louis says flatly.

“Hmm, you got pregnant by his ex-boyfriend first.”

“Marriage beats boyfriend. Plus he tried to steal my son.”

“Well, Zayn also mentioned things have been a bit tense between them,” Liam says, with an expression like he’s a cat delivering a dead bird at Louis’ feet. “He says Harry is in denial about being a workaholic with repressed emotions and that he doesn’t know how to talk his daughters through this ‘precarious time’ as they ‘transition into adulthood’.”

“When did you talk to Zayn about all this?”

“This was like, two weeks ago, but I assume it still stands. Though I’m guessing some of the tension got fixed by Amir coming home.”

“Aye,” Louis says. This is interesting to him, but not earth-shattering — all of this is stuff he had already sensed on an intuitive level just from spending time around them.

He flops into Liam’s arms, snuggling against his chest, and Liam holds him, rubbing his shoulder.

“You should take a nap,” Liam says gently.

“Not sleepy,” Louis says, even as his eyes are falling shut.

“Alright, well, you can cuddle me while you’re being not sleepy.”

“Okay. I love you.”

“I love you too, angel face.” Liam kisses his head. “Love of my life.”

Louis smiles into his chest.

*

Amir can tell Evan isn’t really comfortable around him, still, and the reverse is just as true, but with April there, there’s much less pressure and something else to focus on. They pay an almost comical amount of attention to her as the three of them hang out in the den together. Everything she does gets oohs and ahhs from them, and every request of hers is granted. April must be having the time of her life; she’s smiling like she is.

Mia and Sunday get home around nine, and Mia is loud as soon as she gets in the door, banging around and stomping through the foyer. Amir, who’s relaxed in a recliner with April asleep on his chest, glances curiously at Evan, who shrugs.

They don’t have to wait long, though, because Mia stomps into the den a moment later. She has her knee brace on, and her face is sunburned. “Sunday,” she says to no one in particular, “was so busy staring at the map that she got us lost in the woods _eight times_.”

Sunday appears behind Mia, wringing her hands. “I wanted to make sure we were sticking on the right trail,” she says.

“We could have just _followed_ the trail!”

“But I wanted to make sure we passed by the water station so we could refill our water.”

“We never even got there!” Mia throws her hands in the air. “And we never got to the summit, either, so I didn’t even get to take pictures, which was the only reason I went. We just wandered around in the woods for six hours ‘til the sun started setting, and my bad knee is all fucked up, _and_ I got stung by a hornet.”

“I’m sorry,” Sunday says. “In my defense, though, you kept running ahead —”

“Because you wouldn’t look up from the map!”

“I get nervous when I don’t have cell service!”

Evan clears his throat. “Next time, I’ll just come with you guys,” he says.

“Isn’t that work for you, though?” Mia says. “You literally work in the Eldorado.”

“I work there ‘cos I like it,” Evan says. “I don’t mind going on my days off, I do it all the time.”

Amir glances up at him. “Who stays with April when you do that?”

Evan looks at him, his gaze eagle-sharp, and for a moment he looks like he’s about to say something nasty. He seems to think better of it before responding, “Your dad, usually, or Liam, or the twins, or Mia. Your dad’s family, when they’re in town.”

“A village has been raising your child,” Mia says to Amir. “That’s what happens when you run away to Europe to do crack with Jason.”

“We weren’t smoking _crack_!”

“Crack,” April repeats.

Everyone goes very still and gives each other _yikes_ faces.

“Alright, no more of that, please,” Evan says.

“Crack,” April says again, more insistently, likely because she’s used to getting fussed over every time she speaks.

“Good girl,” Amir says awkwardly, petting her hair. “Crack.”

She nods at him. “Crack.”

“Thanks for this,” Evan says to him.

“She said it first,” Amir says, pointing at Mia.

Mia throws her hands up and limps out of the room, leaving behind Sunday, who looks uncomfortable.

“So how was your day?” she says to Evan.

Evan shrugs. “Good. Sorry yours sucked.”

“Oh, it’s fine. We got fresh air and exercise. Mia’s just been in a bad mood, lately.” Sunday looks down, fiddling with her watch strap. “I really think she should go to Germany. She needs a change of scenery.”

Amir stays quiet. He knows it’s on him, but he only just got Mia back, and he doesn’t really want her to run away to Germany. He should want what’s best for her, though, shouldn’t he?

“You’re probably right,” Evan says.

Sunday nods. “I’m gonna go shower,” she says, and slips out of the room sylph-like.

Amir looks at April, who looks at him back, studying his face in curiosity. He covers the implant’s transmitter with his hand before saying quietly to Evan, “Maybe we _were_ too young to have a kid.”

“Speak for yourself,” Evan says. “I feel like I’m a thousand years old.”

“Hey, so do I,” Amir snaps. “I just feel like if we were older, maybe all of this would have been easier.”

“Or maybe not. Maybe we’d just be more tired and bitter.”

Amir takes his hand away from the transmitter. _I love you_ , he signs to April.

She smiles and signs it back to him.

*

Amir is mostly okay until he goes to bed that night. He had dinner with everyone for the first time in six months, and it was almost normal. Not quite, of course, because everyone was trying way too hard to make it normal, which led to a lot of awkward silences.

Patrick seems to be at least trying to forgive him; Amir asked him to pass the green beans, and Patrick started launching individual green beans at him. This would be aggressive from anyone else, but was comfortingly normal behavior from Patrick.

But the lack of cocaine is really wearing on Amir, and he’s started to taper his Xanax use (on orders from his doctor, who told him over the phone in a very aggrieved tone that he could “drop dead” from Xanax withdrawals if he stopped it cold turkey).

He’s supposed to go into that doctor for a checkup on Thursday, and Louis keeps asking him if he’s going to try to find a therapist, too, but Amir is stalling on that for as long as he can. He’s grown to hate therapists, and therapy. He thinks that maybe Mia is right, he needs a hardass who won’t feel sorry for him, because he can’t respect anyone who does, but therapists are hardly ever hardasses.

At least no one asked him about rehab today. Zayn keeps texting him details as he remembers them — it’s all horrifying stuff like, “They will search your entire body for drugs when you come in, including inside your mouth and asshole.” “You will spend most of your time in group therapy.” “You will never be left alone or allowed to get away with anything.” “No one there will find you charming or funny or cool, they will see you as just another manipulative addict.” None of this is selling Amir on rehab at all.

If he relapses, he’ll go. That’s the main thing keeping him from relapsing — he really, really doesn’t want to go to rehab. Even as he lies awake at night shaking, unable to sleep or think or do anything but lie there in paroxysms of dread, the thought of being locked away for 90 days keeps him from stealing someone’s car and driving to Sacramento to cruise the streets for drugs.

Lying awake at night full of bad feelings sucks, though, so it usually leads to crying, and when Amir cries he usually wants to be comforted. He doesn’t want to wake Louis, who needs his sleep, so he eventually makes his way to Evan’s room.

He stands in his doorway apprehensively, watching Evan’s chest rise and fall. A baby monitor on his bedside table shows a black-and-white video feed of April, asleep in her crib next door.

Amir sneaks over to the bed and puts a hand on Evan’s shoulder, shaking him and whispering his name. Evan cracks one eye open and looks at him sleepily. He’s never been the easily startled type.

“Can I sleep with you?” Amir whispers. “You can say no, I’m just having a really hard time.” He wipes his eyes. “I don’t like sleeping alone.”

Evan continues staring at him, and says nothing, but he pulls the covers back so Amir can join him.

More tears prickle Amir’s eyes, but these are tears of gratitude and relief.

“Can you hold me?” he whispers.

Evan sighs. “Okay.”

Amir crawls in bed with him and spoons up against him. Evan wraps his arms around him, settling back into his pillow with a sigh. Amir’s tension immediately starts to ebb, allowing him to actually close his eyes and relax his muscles somewhat.

Being held like this reminds him of long, hot summer nights in New Orleans, spooning like this, Evan always cradling his belly even before he started showing.

“I miss you,” Amir murmurs.

Evan buries his face in Amir’s hair, letting out another sigh. “Don’t do this to me,” he says, sounding beaten-down.

“Do what to you?”

“Don’t fuck with me like this.”

“I’m not fucking with you!”

“I can’t give you what you’re used to having,” Evan mutters, his breath warm on the back of Amir’s neck.

“What am I used to having?”

“All of me, all the time.”

“Please,” Amir snaps. “I never, ever had that. You always leave half of you in the woods.”

“I have to,” Evan says. “Please. I lose everything. I lost my family, who I was, who I thought I was supposed to be, the life I thought I was gonna have… I lost you… I lost me… April and the woods, that’s all I have.”

Amir is crying again. It’s a sloppy cry, the kind where your eyes are swollen from earlier weeping, so the tears are just leaking down your cheeks and your head is pounding and you’re completely tired of all of it. “You didn’t lose me.”

“I did, though.”

“I’m right here.”

“For how long?”

“What do you mean, for how long?” Amir demands, sitting up in the bed and wiping his eyes. “I’m here to be married to you, or at least raise my daughter with you!”

“Not until you get a better offer?” Evan says coldly. “Not until someone comes along and says they can make you a star?”

“I’ll always be a star,” Amir snaps at him, “and you fucking hate that, I know. I always thought you were cooler than Jason, ‘cos you weren’t jealous of me all the time, but you ended up jealous about having to share me. You don’t want to _be_ me, you just don’t want me to ever give any part of me to anyone else.”

“You’re the one bitching about being jealous of the woods,” Evan says. “At least the woods don’t try to fuck me.”

“Please!”

“I want you to follow your passions,” Evan says, rubbing at his eyes. “I’m serious. That’s what I always worried about, that we got married too young, that we had April too young — I didn’t want to lose you, but I never wanted to hold you back, either.”

“You didn’t. I wanted to have it all. I could have, if I hadn’t gone crazy!”

“But if you’d gone crazy without a kid, without being married to me, it would have been so much less bad,” Evan says. “And you wouldn’t have, even, ‘cos it was ‘cos you had a baby. It was postpartum. So all of this is my fault, really.”

“Your fault? I was the one who stopped taking the pill and let you nut in me whenever. I wanted a baby.”

“I should have said no,” Evan mutters.

“Who cares?” Amir says, wiping his eyes again. “Who cares what we should have done? We didn’t know. We had no idea all this shit would happen.”

They were so happy in New Orleans, he remembers. When he was pregnant, he wrote music all day; it made him very creative, for some reason. He performed in clubs that Louis Armstrong and Wynton Marsalis had played. His life was so full of jazz when April was inside him that Amir thought she _had_ to come out loving jazz — finding out she had been born deaf was like being donkey-kicked in the lungs. The only thing that comforted him was reading about how deaf people could still enjoy and appreciate music, just in a different way. (This reading was courtesy of Louis, who sent him about 10,000 articles on the subject.)

This is also part of why he was okay with Jeff’s request that his singles be more R&B with a jazz influence than straight jazz. Amir loves jazz so much that he had to ease away from it after April’s premature birth, and the NICU, and The Incident, and the psych ward, and the ECT, and the fracturing of himself. He didn’t want to associate jazz with hell.

“I know we didn’t,” Evan says. “It just feels like we should have.”

“Should have what? Expected the worst case scenario?”

“Yeah,” Evan says.

Hearing this makes Amir dissolve into fresh tears, because Evan has always been such a sunny, carefree guy, and it’s like receiving confirmation that he destroyed him. He’s broken his beloved best friend down into a husk who can’t expect anything good to ever happen again.

Evan holds him while he cries, and after a while he realizes Evan is crying, too, so he rolls over and wraps his arms around him. They fall asleep like that.

SACRAMENTO, JULY 16, 2042

The next morning, Amir wakes up alone. He can hear the shower running in the bathroom. He rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling, thinking, then gets up and sneaks down the hall into his own room.

Despite this, he and Evan still end up getting downstairs at the same time anyway, meeting awkwardly on the stairs. Amir only wants to grab some toast and sneak back up to his room, but when he passes by the dining room doorway, April looks up at him from where she’s eating Cheerios in her high chair and calls, “Daddy!” in a voice so hopeful that it breaks his heart a little.

So Amir goes in and sits down next to her, where a chair has been left vacant, presumably for him. Evan sits down on the opposite side of the table. Louis is at breakfast, looking much healthier than he did last week. He has all the color back in his face, and he’s smiling at Liam, who seems to be explaining something to him.

“What did you guys get up to last night?” Patrick says to Evan, who’s sitting beside him. “I heard you yelling, then nothing.”

“Yeah, we started crying instead,” Evan says without looking up from his plate, which he’s forking scrambled eggs onto.

The chatter at the table falls quiet. Amir stifles a laugh and reaches out with a napkin to brush a little dab of ketchup off April’s nose. She makes a face and smiles at him; he smiles at her back.

Everything would be okay if it could just be him and April, no one else.

“I told you it wasn’t going to be anything funny,” Max says to Patrick.

“I was just asking!”

“I was also crying last night,” Mia says. “From my leg pain.”

“Oh, my God,” Sunday says. “I said I was sorry.”

“Now I’m the asshole,” Patrick says to no one in particular. “Like it’s my fault nothing in this house is funny anymore? It’s my fault it’s like a funeral every day? Who can live like this?”

“Yeah,” Evan says, smiling at him, “every single day, I wake up and ask myself, what I can do to make Patrick look like an asshole?”

Everyone laughs at this, including Patrick.

“It’s too early in the morning for you to be yourself, love,” Liam tells Patrick. “Try and be someone else for about an hour.”

“Okay,” Patrick says. “I’m Sunday now.” He adopts very good posture and stares intently at the table in a Sunday-ish way.

“Very funny,” Sunday says.

Louis makes eye contact with Amir across the table and mouths _you okay?_

Amir nods.

“Liam,” Louis says, “switch seats with Evan, yeah? Let him sit next to April.”

Liam looks to his left at April, seemingly baffled, like he hadn’t realized she was there. “Oh, alright.”

Evan gets up and switches seats with Liam, managing not to look too aggrieved about having to sit next to his husband, probably very aware of the fact that six of his in-laws have their eyes pinned on him.

“Daddy,” April says again, pointing at Evan.

Evan gives her a tired smile and forks some of his scrambled eggs onto the tray of her high chair.

“Amir,” Liam says from his new vantage point across the table. “Your hair’s a bit long. I’ve just realized.”

“Yes,” Amir says.

“It’s sorta scraggly and greasy,” Louis says. “I don’t love it.”

“Thanks, Dad, appreciate it.”

“Jeff must put that in all his contracts,” Liam says to Louis.

Louis squints at him like he doesn’t get the joke, then cracks up laughing. Liam grins, clearly pleased with himself.

“It’s okay, Amir,” Patrick says. “You’ve suffered long enough, I’m happy to take on the burden of being the handsome one in the family.”

“Run that by me again?” Max says, sticking a finger in Patrick’s ear and making him writhe in displeasure.

“I thought you were being Sunday,” Liam says to Patrick.

Patrick resumes the ramrod posture and the staring at the table.

“This is just mean,” Sunday complains.

April is having trouble picking up the scrambled eggs with her fingers, so Amir puts them onto a fork and feeds them to her, ignoring his chaotic family. Evan watches this out of the corner of his eye.

“Don’t worry, I can feed our baby without help,” Amir says to him.

“I didn’t say anything!” Evan exclaims. “I’m just looking at you guys.”

Amir doesn’t believe him, but he lets it go.

“By the way, everyone, I’m taking Louis to the doctor today,” Liam announces to the table. “At noon, so no one bother us. No phone calls about silliness, please.”

“Have I ever called you about silliness?” Mia says.

“I’m really mostly talking to my sons.”

“No silliness,” Max confirms.

“All _I’m_ doing today is recovering,” Mia says.

“No workouts or practices?” Louis says to her. “Not reviewing game film?”

Mia clears her throat and gets up from her chair; it scrapes loudly on the wood as she does. “I talked to Coach Kelly yesterday,” she says. “I’m officially taking the rest of the season off, for personal reasons.”

“Seriously?” Louis says.

Mia nods, staring down at her plate instead of looking at him. She’s so afraid of disappointing him, Amir knows.

There’s a moment of silence.

“You know what’s best,” Louis says, but it’s clear this is hard for him. She’s not going back to the team, they all know it. This is the end of her soccer career. Going out not with a bang, but with a whimper.

Amir knows it’s selfish of him, but he’s relieved to momentarily not be the one who everyone is staring at with concern, disappointment and pity.

“Will we still get free Adidas merch?” Patrick says.

“From Dad, yeah,” Mia says. “From me, I dunno.”

“They hardly send me anythin’ anymore,” Louis says. “Just socks.”

“Alright, I’m gonna go upstairs,” Mia says, heading out of the dining room. “See you guys.”

“Bye,” they call after her.

When she’s out of earshot, Louis says, “Did anyone know about this?”

“Don’t look at me,” Amir says. “I don’t know anything anymore.”

Louis gives him a conciliatory glance.

“I knew,” Sunday says quietly. “She feels really terrible about it, she just didn’t know what else to do. She doesn’t love the sport anymore.”

Louis sighs and sets his fork down with a clink on his plate. “I know.”

“You do?” Sunday says.

“‘Course I do. Doesn’t make it any less of a pisser. I hoped she was just in a slump.”

“It’s been a long slump,” Sunday says.

“Now you _have_ to go to the Olympics,” Patrick tells her. “This family is taking too many Ls, we need a dub.”

“Why don’t _you_ go to the Olympics, Paddy?” she demands.

“I’m not good enough at anything,” Patrick says. Max snorts in response to this.

“Well, there you go.”

“You know, you’re doing a terrible job being Sunday,” Liam tells him.

“See, I can’t go to the Olympics for that now either,” Patrick complains.

Louis chokes on a laugh.

*

Now that the first blush of conflict has faded, and things are mostly stable, if a little awkward, Amir finds himself skidding on black ice toward a dangerous level of boredom. He’s starting to remember why he was so desperate to leave Vallejo, even though he didn’t find what he was looking for on tour.

Really, he wants what Louis has — the tight and trustworthy friends both inside the industry and outside of it, the happy and unshakable marriage, the career freedom, his own money, the gang of adult kids who love him and are happy to spend time with him. He’s perfectly aware that this was all hard-won for Louis, that he spent years being bored and exhausted and sad, that it took him a bunch of strife and a painful divorce to get where he is now, but Amir is jealous of it all just the same.

He’s even jealous of Zayn for being sober for so long that it’s more of a habit than using ever was. People who have been sober for decades are like serious athletes. They’re so accustomed to their own insane self-discipline, they’ve become completely unrelatable, and no matter what they say, it sounds smug.

Coming home wasn’t even the hardest part for Amir. The hardest part is going to be putting the pieces of his shattered life back together, and doing it sober. The hardest part is going to be getting his career back on track after it veered into the dirt and crashed into a tree. The hardest part is going to be fixing things with Evan.

Amir has a list of general tasks in the notes app on his phone: _fire Jeff, find a therapist, don’t do drugs, get April used to hearing your voic_ e. Those are the only things giving shape to the foggy mass of days that stretches out ahead of him.

 _Fix things with Evan._ That one isn’t on the list; it doesn’t need to be. Amir thinks about it constantly, now that he’s home with April. He remembers watching his parents argue, remembers being constantly dropped off and picked up, constantly packing a bag, remembers one of his parents always not being there, remembers the rage he felt when watching Liam kiss Louis goodbye, or watching Zayn’s boyfriends and girlfriends walk into the kitchen with a smug smile on Saturday mornings. God, how he hated all of that. And this is even worse, because he wouldn’t just lose the chance to give April happily married parents, he’d lose his best friend. He’d lose the boy who’s been by his side since he was seven years old. Contemplating that feels like peering over the edge of a skyscraper.

Amir doesn’t quite know how to fix it, though. It’s so painful for them to talk honestly to each other, it’s like bloodletting. Maybe, at some point, this will get easier? In the meantime, every day is its own special kind of agony: a cacophony of boredom, emotional pain, physical discomfort, twinges of regret every time he remembers some horrible thing he said while depressed or coked out of his mind, and the feeling of profound loneliness despite being surrounded by people.

April makes it bearable, though. Every time April smiles at him, his heart aches with precious love. Then he gets furious all over again at his family, for having the absolute gall to ever push him away from her. She needs him! She doesn’t care that he’s a raging fuck-up who leaves a path of destruction and chaos in his wake. She isn’t even mad at him for running away, unlike everyone else. He has to make it up to her now, before she learns about the concepts of time, and abandonment, and anger. He has to stick around, so he can explain to her why he left in the first place, and apologize.

He can’t die, or go to rehab, or run away again. She’s why. Amir doesn’t know if he could find the strength for anyone else. If anything happened to his daughter, he’d go lie down in a field and let the crows eat him.

He knows that’s dramatic, but he’s always been very dramatic.

*

Patrick comes out to the backyard while Amir is sitting in the grass with April, watching her toddle around and play with Goose. He read that sunshine helps with withdrawals. He’s still getting chills, so it’s helping with that, at least.

Evan is down by the treeline, stomping around in his work boots as he clears flammable dead wood and stuffs it into a massive black trash bag.

“What’s up?” Amir says to Patrick.

Patrick shrugs. “Nothing.”

“You need something?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says, and jokingly squares up with Amir, bending down to punch him in the shoulder. “Let’s go.”

“Nah, I’m chilling. You’ll have to fight Dan.”

Dan is their elderly neighbor who owns the property to the west; he very much does not like living next to two British celebrities and their pack of unruly children, and makes this known to Louis and Liam every time he sees them. Once when Liam was repairing a shared stretch of fence, Dan walked up and leaned on the part he was working on before asking him if there was any way he could make the engine on his ‘Lamborg-heeney’ quieter.

Patrick sits next to Amir in the grass. April lets out a burst of giggles, and Goose responds by eagerly licking her face, like he thinks giggles are edible. The afternoon sunlight is making her hair glow like moonlight, and making the fringes of his dark coat shine russet orange.

“Are you done being a dick to me?” Amir says to Patrick, without taking his eyes off his daughter.

“Not sure,” Patrick says. “Are you done being a dick to all of us? Are you done making Dad miserable?”

“I never meant to make Dad miserable.”

“Well, you did,” Patrick shoots back. “Do you know how much it’s sucked around here because of you? I was trying to enjoy my senior year, man, and it was nothing but suck. I was barely home this spring, I used to go to parties at Rodman’s and crash at his place for the whole weekend, and Dad barely even noticed.”

The implications of this are varied in their unpleasantness, but Amir pushes that away. “Maybe it’s good for you to learn that there are more important things in life than you enjoying your senior year,” he says.

“I’m not even talking about that! I had to cheer everybody up the whole time you were gone! You literally turned Dad and Mia into different people!”

“That’s on them, not me.”

“Oh, my God,” Patrick groans. “Seriously?”

“Look, I take responsibility for a certain amount of stuff,” Amir snaps, finally turning to him. Luckily, April is distracted by pulling Goose’s ears up into the air like he’s Dumbo. “I take responsibility for dipping out. Going on tour, that was a mistake, yeah. Telling you guys to fuck off and cutting off contact, yeah, my bad. I messed up, that wasn’t the way to handle things, I admit it. But you’re not going to sit here and shit on me ‘cos me being in pain put _my_ dad and _my_ sister in pain.”

“They’re my dad and sister too,” Patrick mutters. “I know you’re the favorite, but that doesn’t mean the rest of us are, like, fucking guest actors in our own lives.”

“I’m not the favorite! _You’re_ the favorite!”

Patrick snorts. “Yeah, okay. And that’s not the only reason I’m pissed, either. I also… y’know.”

“What?”

Patrick rolls his shoulders back and lets out a heavy sigh. “I missed you,” he says. “Asshole. I honestly thought you might just never talk to us again.”

“I never would have done that.”

“If you’d died on tour, you would have.”

“I’m not dead.”

Patrick shrugs.

“I’m here now,” Amir says. “I’m trying. All this shit that went down, and I’m still trying.”

“I don’t trust you,” Patrick mutters, and his cheeks go pink as he says it. “You weren’t at our graduation, you weren’t there when I needed to talk to you, or ask you about stuff. You were just gone.”

A lump rises in Amir’s throat. Patrick is so stubborn and independent, and Mia is so good at the oldest sibling role, that sometimes Amir forgets he’s Patrick’s big brother.

“I’m sorry,” Amir says, choking up. “I really am sorry about that.”

Patrick looks sideways at him. “Are you crying?” he demands.

“Shut up! Don’t look at me!”

“Don’t _cry!_ ”

“I’ll fucking cry if I want to cry! Quit looking at me!” He tries to swallow the tears back.

“If you cry, I’m gonna cry!”

“Then just cry, asshole! It’s okay to cry!”

April toddles over to them as they’re arguing and holds her hands up to Amir’s face, clumsily wiping his tears away with her grass-stained little fingers. “No bad,” she tells him sternly.

Amir laughs through his tears. “No bad.”

April wraps her arms around his neck, collapsing onto his chest. He hugs her and holds her close, swaying back and forth.

Patrick is wiping his own eyes, now. April peeks at him, then lets go of Amir and toddles over to him, hugging him too.

“Thanks April,” Patrick murmurs.

Evan comes up the hill toward them; when he reaches them, he takes his work gloves off and tosses them into the grass. Amir can’t help noticing that his arm muscles are standing out against his tanned skin, which is gleaming with sweat. His dick stirs.

“Whatcha doing?” Evan says to Patrick, sounding amused, as he takes April into his arms and hoists her into the air. She giggles in delight.

“Crying,” Patrick mutters.

“Oh, you too, now?”

Patrick rolls his eyes and gets to his feet, sniffling. “I’m gonna go inside and get my dignity back,” he says.

“Good luck with that,” Amir says, laughing.

Patrick laughs, too, giving him the finger as he walks away.

Evan tosses April over his head, making her squeal and giggle harder. When he tires of this, he sets her down next to a very worried Goose, and says to Amir, “So Jason called while I was working down there.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, he said he’s going to rehab.”

Amir is taken aback by this. “Really?”

Evan nods.

“Does he know they search your asshole for drugs?”

Evan chokes out a laugh. “What?”

“My dad told me that about rehab, that they search your asshole for drugs.”

“I’ll search your asshole for drugs,” Evan says playfully, like he normally would talk to Amir, and then they both look at each other in recognition that this is awkward. He quickly adds: “I dunno, his dad’s making him. He said he’s wasting his life, that he never should have left JPMorgan to go be your lapdog… he had a bunch of nasty stuff to say about you, apparently.”

“Funny how that works,” Amir says.

“You know how Charles is. He was never gonna blame Jason, Jason’s his precious golden child.”

“And I’m an evil temptress,” Amir muses. A sexy, ethnically ambiguous siren, singing his siren song of drugs and death. Good album concept.

Evan snorts. “I don’t think anyone said _that_.”

April is lying down in the grass with Goose, her face buried in his fur. Goose looks entirely content about this.

“How pissed is he at me?” Amir says.

Evan looks surprised by the question. “I mean, he’s not, like, _happy_ with you, but he doesn’t hate you or anything. I think this whole thing just hit him like a train, he got caught up in something he didn’t really understand and he let things get out of hand. Or that’s how he phrased it.”

Something about the way Evan says this sounds bitter. “Are you pissed at him?”

“Oh, yeah,” Evan says unemotionally. “I think he should have stood up to you sooner, and the only reason he didn’t was ‘cos he liked the drugs and the girls too much. I’m glad he did eventually, but if something would have happened to you on tour, I’d never have forgiven him for enabling you.”

“What if something’d happened to him? Would you have been pissed at me?”

“Probably, yeah. Look, I love Jason, at the end of the day. He’s a fucking idiot, but I kinda feel like we’re stuck with him for life.” Evan tugs on one of April’s pigtails. “Right, April?”

“Doggy,” April says, sounding sleepy.

“Might be time for her nap,” Evan says, gathering her up in his arms and picking her up again. The sight of him all sweaty from work and gently carrying their daughter makes Amir’s stomach swoop.

Amir follows him upstairs, and they put her down together, singing little nonsense songs to her as she drifts off to sleep.

It’s the first time in ages that he’s felt like they were a real family. Amir gets a little emotional, realizing this. It doesn’t seem fair that this feeling is so rare. He and Evan love each other, and they love their daughter. Why is it so hard to be normal and happy?

Louis and Liam are returning home when Amir and Evan come downstairs. Louis stops in the middle of the foyer and stretches elaborately like a cat.

“What’s the news?” Evan says.

“I’m fine,” Louis says, flapping his hand.

“He’s _recovering well_ ,” Liam says, shooting him a look. “He’s not recovered yet. In fact, he’s supposed to be resting right now.”

“I’ve been resting! Christ! Fucking boring, innit?”

“I don’t understand how you’ll have a lie-in ‘til one when you’ve got no reason to, but when a doctor tells you to stay in bed, suddenly you want to run a marathon.”

“You know I hate not being able to do anything,” Louis says.

Amir is hit with another wave of guilt about what he’s been putting his dad through this year. He sneaks away while the three of them are talking and heads out onto the patio, pulling his cigarettes from his pocket and lighting one. He sits, then stares out over the hills, zoning out.

The patio door slides open after a few minutes, and Amir turns to see Louis. He hurries to put his cigarette out in a panic, but Louis rolls his eyes.

“You really think I don’t know you’ve been smoking?” he says. “Don’t put it out, give it to me, at least.”

“Dad, you have pneumonia!”

“Ah, right. Shit.” Louis sits down across from him and kicks his feet up onto the seat of the chair to his left. “What happened to vaping? Don’t kids vape now?”

“I think I sort of wanted to be self-destructive,” Amir admits. “Also, everyone in Europe still smokes.”

Louis laughs. “Well, knock off the cigs, please. If you have to have nicotine while you’re getting sober, you can vape. Look at me and my crunchy lungs, that’ll be you if you don’t quit.”

Amir puts his cigarettes back in his pocket. He’d throw them away, but being sober is very hard, and he needs his little vices right now.

“I have to fire Jeff,” he says, apropos of nothing.

“Do you?” Louis says, studying him.

“Well, I want to.”

“Has Jeff not already fired _you_?”

Amir shrugs. “Not officially. I haven’t heard from his people since I got a voicemail about the, y’know, logistics of me being kicked off the tour.”

“Right.” Louis leans his elbows on the table and rests his chin on his fists. This makes him look like a little kid. “So, not to pressure you, but there are a few things like that… just logistical things… that we probably ought to discuss.”

“Like what?” Amir says, feeling a familiar tide of exhaustion crash over him.

“Well, things like, ah, are you still paying your security team?”

“Oh.” Amir hadn’t thought about that. “I guess.”

“Even though they’re not providing you security anymore?”

Amir puts his hand to his forehead.

“And you said you’re broke, to begin with,” Louis continues. “But how broke?”

“I dunno. I haven’t checked my bank accounts in months.”

“Amir…”

“I know, I know.”

“Are you doing that to everything?” Louis says. “Texts, emails, all that?”

Amir nods. His texts are flooded with fake concern from quasi-friends, and his email and voicemail inbox are full of label and PR people begging him to call him back so they can strategize about how to make him look less terrible in the public eye. His phone has something like 600 unread texts, and his unread emails are in the thousands.

He’s sure that his social media is a mess, too, but he doesn’t look at it anymore. After his show at the Troubadour, he made public Twitter and Instagram accounts and then gave the passwords to his social media manager, Gary (who has also been texting, emailing and calling him frantically). For years now, Gary has been responsible for tweeting on his behalf, and posting curated photos on Instagram, and updating everything else that needs to be updated.

Amir kept his private accounts, which he’s had since middle school, but he’s had to winnow down the lists of who has access to those over the past year. The press became very interested in him and Evan after their elopement, and even moreso after it broke that he was pregnant, and ever since then, that interest has never once waned, only increasing exponentially when Amir started releasing music and joined Jya’s tour. It’s a miracle they were able to keep Amir’s psych ward stay out of the press as long as they were, and that was only because The Incident itself was a tight family secret that even Amir’s cousins still don’t know the full truth of.

So, as tends to happen, things from Amir’s private social media accounts have been getting leaked for at least two years now. His paranoia over this is so acute that he used to go through rounds of soft-blocking every time it happened, cutting out a half-dozen people each time, until finally he decided social media was useless to him. Now his private accounts lay abandoned and unused, and his public ones are Gary’s domain, which means the content is immaculate but highly impersonal. He still has millions of followers on those, though. Go figure.

He’s figured out that Frankie was probably the one who leaked about the psych ward (Amir had told him about it when they were out clubbing together) and about him being kicked off the tour for his drug use. It makes the most sense. He needs money, and Amir is the one who screwed him out of money. Why not screw Amir back by dropping a dime to TMZ to the tune of $20k or so? Two birds with one stone. Amir can’t even really blame him.

“You can’t just avoid everything forever,” Louis says gently. “You’re a grown man. You have a little daughter who looks to you for answers.”

“I know,” Amir says, rubbing at his eyelids until colorful shapes appear in his vision.

“Okay. Why don’t we sit down tomorrow and make a list of things we need to track down and get sorted out? That’ll make it feel less overwhelming. I’ve already spoken to Eliza and asked if she can help us out, and she said sure. She’s very good at this sort of thing, she liaises with my PR team all the time.”

Amir nods. “Thank you,” he says in a small voice.

“Of course, love.”

“You should go back to bed. Aren’t you on bed rest?” Amir is wracked by a tremor, and he bends in half, inhaling sharply. The motor stuff has been slowly getting better, but sometimes it hits him out of nowhere.

“Alright?” Louis says, sounding worried.

“I’m fine. I asked you about bed rest.”

“Ah, yeah. I’ll go up in a mo.” Louis drums his fingers on the glass tabletop. “I was on bed rest when I was pregnant wiv you, you know.”

“Yeah, you’ve told me this many, many times.”

“You were a week late, I was absolutely miserable.”

“Sorry,” Amir says, still hugging his arms to himself. Louis just smiles at him. “God, you were younger than I am now, weren’t you?”

“I was,” Louis confirms.

“And you had two kids?”

“I did.”

“I couldn’t do it,” Amir says.

“Well, to be fair to you, you’re going through shit that I wasn’t.”

“Yeah. I guess you’re right. Hey, uh… Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“Would you be willing to be my manager again?”

Louis’ face changes; he suddenly looks apprehensive and unsure. “You haven’t got to pick a new manager straight away,” he says. “Take some time. Think about what you really, really want.”

“I really want my dad to represent me.”

“Amir… I’m honored you’d ask, I really am, but I dunno if I’m the best fit.”

“But you love me,” Amir says.

“Of course! That doesn’t mean I’d be able to manage you at the level you need, though.”

“I don’t care about levels anymore,” Amir promises him. “Seriously, I don’t. I just want my manager to really care about me, that’s all I ever wanted. I wanted this before, remember?”

“And I said I wasn’t sure, back then,” Louis says, smiling at him. “I’m even less sure it’s the right decision now.”

“I’ll convince you,” Amir promises.

“Alright, love.”

*

Evan goes upstairs to shower and change out of his outdoor clothes; while he’s doing the latter, Rachel calls him.

He really doesn’t plan on picking up, but at the last possible second, something snaps in him that makes him hit the ACCEPT button on his watch with an aggressive tap of his finger.

“What?” he says as he fits his earpiece into his ear.

“Hi,” Rachel says. “I’m surprised you answered.”

“Almost didn’t, and might still hang up. What do you want?”

“I just wanted to talk to you. We’re all worried about you.”

Evan scoffs. “Are you?”

“Of course we are. All we read about these days is how your husband, who you left the family over, has become this crazy junkie who abandoned you.”

“You shouldn’t believe everything you read,” Evan says, sitting stiffly on the edge of his bed. “And that’s a nice way to talk about someone you’ve known for almost his entire life.”

“I don’t care about Amir, Evan, I care about you.”

“Do you? You betrayed me to Dad. You knew what that meant when you did it. As far as I’m concerned, you proved where your loyalties are at.”

“My loyalty is to my family,” Rachel says in an icy voice. “Don’t get nasty with me just because you made a huge mistake and you know it. I bet you’re really wishing you had a postnup now, right?”

“Why would I care? Dad cut me off anyway.”

“Oh, please, Evan! Dad would never actually cut off his oldest son.”

“He revoked my trust,” Evan says. “I was supposed to get it at twenty-five, and he changed the provisions so that only applied if I was a member of the board. I have nothing, dude, I work a fucking normal job like a real person. And he changed his will —“

“He didn’t actually change his will.”

Evan goes still. “He didn’t?”

“Yes,” Rachel says, sounding annoyed. “You’re still entitled to part of his share in the company after he croaks. So is Henry. He talks a big game, but Dad isn’t going to cut you guys off just ‘cos of some bad behavior, he can’t justify it to himself. You know how he is about bloodlines. You’re his heirs the same as I am. It’s not like he has two backup sons stashed in a storage unit somewhere.”

Evan stops himself from laughing at this. “If he’s so obsessed with bloodlines, then he should show some interest in meeting his granddaughter.”

“Like you’d allow that?”

“He doesn’t want to, Rachel.”

“Of course not. He hates Amir.” She says this with no passion, like she’s describing the weather. “You should have heard him when it broke that he was pregnant. He said you’d been trapped for life by a hot-tempered whore who was going to indoctrinate his first grandchild into Islam.”

“He said _what_?”

“I shit you not, that’s a direct quote.”

“And did you defend Amir? ‘Cos that’s fucking insane.”

“Yeah, obviously! I told him he sounded like a crazy, racist old man.”

“Alright, well, thanks, I guess.”

“So what’s going on, though? Are you divorcing him? Because that’s going to be a nightmare without a nuptial agreement.”

“I’m not divorcing him,” Evan says. “Not right now, anyway. He came home, and we’re giving it a shot. Unlike you guys, my biggest concern is my daughter, not my money and my fucking social standing.”

“Uh-huh,” Rachel says. “Cool, whatever you want.”

“Yep.”

“I’d still like to meet your daughter, personally.”

“I’m sure you would. Maybe give me a real apology, and make your way out here, and we can arrange it.”

Rachel sighs. “Okay, Evan. Whatever. Glad we talked.”

“Yep.”

She hangs up on him. Evan sits on the edge of his bed for a while, staring at a painting of a sailboat hanging on the wall next to his skis.

*

Amir notices that Evan seems distracted and anxious when he comes downstairs; he keeps stepping out on the patio to get fresh air, standing there with his hands on his hips, breathing deeply. Amir wants to offer him his vape, but he’s not sure where Evan stands on nicotine these days.

Liam is baking a loaf of cheesy jalapeno sourdough bread despite it being 80 degrees out, and the smell keeps drawing people into the kitchen, even Amir. He’s finding that now that the initial nausea and misery is ebbing, getting off coke has actually improved his appetite.

Sunday has been spending most of her time working out in Liam’s state-of-the-art gym, but even she gets lured into the kitchen by the smell of melting cheese and baking bread, along with Mia. The three of them sit at the island drinking the cold coffee left over from breakfast that morning, teasing Liam for his mother hen-like attention to the bread, and things actually feel normal.

Louis comes down for lunch after a while, carrying April, who’s up from her nap and has extreme bedhead. “Do I smell bread?” he says, setting April on the floor. She dashes off.

“Jalapeno cheesy bread,” Evan says, rounding the corner.

“Payno!” Louis says, sounding delighted.

Liam, who’s standing in front of their massive Viking oven with his oven mitted hands held in the air like he’s a surgeon scrubbing in, does a little bow. “I live to serve.”

Sunday glances up from her phone and announces, “I’ll probably head to England on Saturday, guys.”

“What?” Liam says, still holding his mitten hands in the air. “Why?”

“‘Cos my horse is in England, and my trainer is in England?”

“What are they in England for?” Louis says.

“Because the WEG is being held at Badminton Park this year, and I got schooling passes to ride the course a few weeks from now,” Sunday says patiently. “I’ve mentioned this.”

“Sorry, I’d totally forgot,” Louis says. “Where in England is this? Will you stop by me and Payno’s people to say hullo?”

“Well, it’s kind of in the south.”

“Ew,” Louis says. “Where at?”

“South Gloucestershire.”

Louis and Liam make disgusted faces at each other.

“Horrors,” Louis says.

“Good surfing ‘round there, though,” Liam says.

“I don’t think I’ll be doing much surfing,” Sunday replies.

“Maybe we’ll come visit you,” Louis says.

Liam lets out a long-suffering sigh. “You. Have. _Pneumonia_.”

“Maybe I won’t in a few weeks,” Louis says. “Support your daughter, dickhead.”

“Support my daughter by killing my husband, aye, certainly. You’re fucking barking.”

“I’d like to surf in England,” Evan says. “I never have.”

“See? We can all go,” Louis says.

Liam opens the oven by a crack and peeks at the bread; Amir zones out as Mia and Sunday start talking about Sunday visiting Mia, or vice versa.

“It’s less of a pain in the ass for me to get to England, probably, ‘cos I’m a citizen,” Mia says. “But then there’s the thing of like, we’re in England all the time, and maybe you’d like to see Berlin?”

“I do go to Germany a lot, though, it’s a big horse country.”

“Yeah, but that’s what I mean, you never see the tourist parts, you just see the horse parts.”

Something is nagging at Amir; something instinctive and insistent. He sits up a little straighter in his chair, then says, “Where’s April?”

As soon as he says it, he thinks he’s being ridiculous, because there are so many adults in the immediate vicinity that she couldn’t have possibly slipped away unnoticed. But the silence that comes in response to this question makes his heart sink.

“Er,” Louis says, glancing around. He doesn’t sound worried, but he rarely ever does about kid stuff. “She just toddled off…” He heads around the corner, and then they hear a quiet, “Shit.”

Amir vaults off his stool and runs to Louis’ side, looking at what he’s looking at: the wide-open patio door.

“Evan!” Amir yells.

Evan comes around the corner, looking scared. Mia, Sunday and Liam follow on his heels.

“You left the fucking door open,” Amir says, pointing at it. His heart is pounding in his ears.

All the blood drains from Evan’s face, and he claps his hands to his eyes. “I thought she was still napping,” he moans.

“Alright, hang on,” Louis says. “Let’s stay calm. We don’t know she went out the door, alright? Evan and Liam, can you go outside and check for her? We’ll look around the house, here.”

Evan and Liam nod and beat feet out to the patio.

“Check the pool!” Louis screams after them. “Before anything else, check the pool!”

“Is there any point in yelling for her?” Amir says, hurrying down the hall to the dining room, where he looks under the table and chairs. No sign of her.

“No,” Louis says, following after her. “You can try, but you know she doesn’t, like, properly register yellin’ as speech…”

“APRIL,” Amir yells anyway. His heart is starting to race.

There follows an agonizing hour of them tearing the house apart looking for April. The twins come downstairs and join in on the search, and they look frantically until it becomes obvious that she absolutely must be outside, somewhere on the thousand-acre property, about half of which is wooded.

Patrick and Max go to the side of the house to check the pool again before pulling the cover over it. The other four of them head outside and stand at the top of the hill, scanning the massive backyard. Evan and Liam are on opposite sides, combing it in a grid pattern and yelling “Clear!” to each other as they do. Amir is paralyzed by anxiety — his vision snowy, sick to his stomach, shaking. He can’t sit still or stay in one place, so he paces frantically like a lunatic. Over the ringing in his ears, he can hear Louis on the phone with 911, telling a dispatcher their address and what happened.

“She’s hearing impaired,” Louis says quietly, “so that’s an issue, ‘cos I don’t think she can hear us yelling for her...”

Amir sinks onto his hands and knees in the soft grass. Someone kneels next to him and starts petting his hair.

“We’ll find her,” Mia says quietly. “This is the countryside, no one would have stolen her, and there’s not a lot of places for her to disappear in. They’ll bring dogs and drones. I’m sure she’s in the woods somewhere, just playing.”

“What if she walked down to the road and got hit by a car,” Amir says. His voice doesn’t feel like his own.

“Paddy went to check, the front gate’s closed. No one opened it.”

“She’s little, she could have slipped through the treeline.”

“She wouldn’t, Amir, she’s scared of that road. And Paddy looked up and down it, he didn’t see anything. It’s flat, you can see for half a mile in both directions. She couldn’t have been gone for more than a few minutes before we realized, okay? We saw Dad bring her down. It’s okay.”

“Yeah, I made sure, Amir,” Sunday says. “It was only five minutes, I know ‘cos I remember sending a text right as he got downstairs with her, at 2:16, and when we realized she was gone, I checked my watch, and it was 2:21. That driveway takes ten minutes to walk down on adult legs, and she’d have to walk all the way around the side of the house, too, so there’s no way she made it to the road before Paddy got down there.”

“Okay,” Amir says. The horrid clench of anxiety eases slightly, but only for a moment, and then it starts stabbing pins into his heart again. Now he’s imagining her drowning in a creek in the woods, or being bitten by a rattlesnake.

Louis says “thanks, bye,” and then clears his throat. “Cops are on the way,” he says. “I’m gonna go get some of her clothes, so the dogs can sniff them.”

Amir collapses onto his side and rolls into a little ball, hugging his knees to his chest. Sunday goes off to help Evan and Liam look, while Mia keeps petting his hair.

“We don’t deserve a kid,” Amir mutters. “All we do is fuck it up.”

“Amir, this could happen to anyone,” Mia says. “Kids are escape artists.”

“I hate this. I don’t want to be alive anymore.”

“You don’t mean that,” she says, stroking his hair back from his forehead.

“I really do,” Amir says. He feels like he’s drowning in despair.

The cops arrive sometime later, and soon the house becomes the crime scene for a missing persons case. Someone ushers Amir inside, into the parlor, and sets him down in a chair with a blanket around his shoulders, shoving a water bottle into his hands. He looks up and sees that the someone is Max, who smiles at him. Louis prints out a dozen photos of April and hands one to every cop present. Bloodhounds are being walked around on leashes, scaring the shit out of Goose, who hides under Amir’s feet. A uniformed guy carrying a massive drone walks through the foyer and heads toward the back of the house.

Time takes turns slipping by and passing interminably. Louis calls Zayn to let him know what’s going on, and Amir listens miserably to his half of the conversation, wishing none of this was real.

At some point, the sun starts to go down, and an exhausted-looking Evan and Liam walk into the parlor. Louis, who’s being interviewed by a cop with a notebook, turns and glances at them. They both shake their heads.

“Seriously?” Amir demands of them.

Liam gets an expression of such crushing guilt that it hurts to look at him. Evan just looks devastated.

“We’ve been looking for hours,” he says, his voice raw from yelling.

“We might need to convene a search party to comb the property,” the cop with the notebook says. “It’s a lot of acreage, especially with the sun going down. I know that might be tricky logistically, due to your family’s notoriety, but we’re losing time, here.”

These words swim into Amir’s ears and right back out.

“I’m going to go look,” he says, standing up and tossing the blanket off his shoulders. “I’m taking Goose. Give me some of her clothes.”

“Son, I know you’re worried about your daughter, you should really let the authorities and our dogs handle this,” the cop says. “They’re trained and bred for this.”

“I’m not your son, and he’s a hunting dog just like your stupid bloodhounds are,” Amir tells him. “Give me a piece of clothing.”

The cop sighs through his nose. Louis digs a tiny pink sock from his pocket and hands it over to Amir, who picks Goose up and holds it in front of his nose. Goose sniffs it eagerly.

“Let’s go find April,” Amir says to him, emotionlessly. If he thinks too hard about this, he’ll break down and start crying, so he won’t do that. He’s on a mission, now.

*

The woods are swarming with cops and dogs, who are apparently being advised on the terrain and the limits of the property by the crack team of a deputized Patrick, Max and Sunday — they’re holding police-issue flashlights and are standing at the edge of the treeline, shouting to the cops as they work.

Amir ignores all of this and walks deeper into the woods, carrying Goose until they’re out of earshot of the sound of barking bloodhounds. He sets Goose down on the forest floor and takes his leash in his hand, then just starts walking through the trees.

Sometimes he follows Goose, sometimes Goose follows him. Every crunch of a leaf or branch under their feet makes him stop, his heart lifting momentarily in hope.

The sun has gone down by the time Goose puts his nose to the ground and starts sniffing in earnest. Amir stares at him, not daring to think that he’s actually tracking her.

“Are you doing something?” Amir whispers to him. “April, Goose. Find April.”

He offers Goose the sock again, and Goose sniffs it all over before returning to sniffing the ground. He starts dragging Amir through the forest, then.

Northern California’s woods are spacious and easy to see through, but they’re also full of small scrubby bushes and plants that tear through your pants and scrape your legs. Amir barely notices this, but he does on some level register that his ankles are in searing pain, and that the backs of his feet are bleeding from open blisters. He hasn’t walked this far in ages, and he hasn’t eaten since early that afternoon. His vision swims. 

He’s starting to think Goose is a complete waste of a spaniel, and he’ll never be able to look at him again without resenting him for not being able to find his daughter, when he hears a soft noise in the forest.

Amir goes completely still, scanning the darkness around him. It could be an animal, he tells himself.

There’s more noise, a shifting in the brush, and then the sound of April crying out.

“April,” Amir yells, his heart thudding in his chest. “April! April!”

He bends down and lets Goose off his leash with shaking hands. Goose bolts, disappearing under a bush, and Amir runs after him. He pulls the bush aside with his hands and finds April sitting there.

“Daddy,” she exclaims. Goose starts licking her face, wagging his tail frantically.

“Baby,” Amir cries, dropping to his knees in the dirt. “Oh, my God. _Alhamdulillah_. Jesus Christ.”

April is covered in burrs, and her shirt is snagged in the thorns of a pricker bush behind her. Amir’s shaking hands pull his keys from his pocket, and he finds his multitool, which Liam gave him as a birthday present a few years back. He uses the little knife to cut her free, then pulls her into his arms, ignoring the prickers snagging his hands and ripping the skin open.

“Daddy,” April says, clinging to him, burying her face in his neck.

Amir holds her tight, tears streaming down his cheeks. “I got you,” he says, rising unsteadily to his feet. Goose heels beside him, clearly pleased with himself. “I got you. You’re okay. Daddy has you.”

Dizzy with relief, he staggers back in the direction he came from, realizing as he does so that he had walked at least a mile into the woods. Amir shifts April onto his hip so he can look at his watch, staring blearily at the bright screen in the darkness.

His little Apple map of the property shows that the structures on it are all to the north of him, so he turns his watch into a compass and heads due north for what feels like ages. He’s weak, and April is heavy. Goose bounds along beside them as if cheering them on.

After twenty or so minutes, he starts to hear voices in the distance.

“HEY!” Amir screams, his throat feeling raw. “HEY! I FOUND HER! YO!”

The voices quiet down, like they’re listening.

“HEY!” he yells again.

April is sucking her thumb. Amir looks down at her and realizes that she’s covered in dirt and mud, and her arms are lacerated and bloody from the pricker bush.

Upset by this, he breaks into a jog despite his exhaustion. “HEY, COPS! I FOUND HER!”

He hears people crashing through the brush, and then two cops appear, shining their flashlights directly into Amir’s eyes. A second later, Max and Sunday run up behind them.

“Is that her?” the female cop demands.

“Yes!” Sunday cries, pushing past her. “Oh, thank God. Yes, that’s her.”

Max runs over to Amir, wrapping his arms around him. “Dude, are you okay? You’re all bloody...”

The cops are on their radios, now, saying a bunch of words and codes into them; Amir isn’t listening closely enough to understand them. Sunday comes over and hugs him, too, checking on April, studying her with a worried look.

“She was caught in a thorn bush,” Amir mutters.

“Oh, poor baby,” Sunday says. “God.”

The male cop comes over and tries to take April from Amir’s arms, but he hangs onto her.

“She needs medical attention,” the cop says.

“Let me walk her up,” Amir says, despite that he’s shaking like a leaf.

There’s more crashing from the brush, and then Patrick runs in at a full sprint. He skids to a stop and leans down with his hands on his thighs, panting, his flashlight beam bouncing as his chest heaves. “You… found… her?”

“Yes,” Sunday assures him.

“Thank... God. ‘Cos I swear I just saw... a coyote.”

“Goose found her,” Amir says.

Patrick lights up. “He did? Goose!” Goose bounds joyfully over to Patrick and jumps on him, licking his face. Patrick kneels, petting him hard and laughing. “You’re such a good boy!”

The radio chatter continues as the police lead Amir out of the forest. They walk out of the treeline and up the hill, toward the house, which is gleaming like a jewel. Every single light in it is on.

Through his swimming vision, Amir sees figures standing on the hill overlooking the backyard.

“I have her,” he yells to them, whoever they are.

One of the figures yells something back. Amir closes his eyes as he walks. He’s noodly from exhaustion. A hand hits the small of his back, supporting him as they climb the hill, and he thinks it must be Max’s, though he doesn’t turn around to look.

The figures are Mia and Evan, who run toward him to meet him. Amir stops in his tracks and lets Evan take April, because he feels like he’s about to pass out.

“Daddy,” April chirps, sounding no worse for the wear.

“You found her,” Evan says, his voice full of tears as he brings April to his shoulder and cradles her head in his hand. “Oh, my God… thank God...”

“You’re welcome,” Amir says insolently. Mia snorts and wraps her arm around his shoulders, steadying him.

“I have him, Max,” she says, and the hand leaves Amir’s lower back. Patrick wraps his arm around Amir’s other shoulder, and the two of them guide him toward the house.

Evan carries April, who looks over his shoulder at Amir, smiling at him. One of her precious little cheeks has a scrape on it. Amir wants to pull every thorn bush in the world out of the ground by its roots and burn them all.

The cops lead Evan into the house, then into the den, where everyone has gathered and seemingly set up an impromptu war room. A fire is going in the fireplace; it’s become a cool night despite the time of year. Amir didn’t realize it until now, but he’s shivering in his t-shirt and cropped sweatpants.

“Any EMTs in here?” the cop shouts. “We have two patients with minor lacerations.”

Amir wonders what he means by _two_ patients, then he looks down at his ripped up hands and arms. Oh.

Someone crashes into him, hugging him. It’s Louis.

“Did you actually find her?” Louis exclaims, kissing him on the head. “Sweetheart… we were about to send them out looking for _you_. Christ. You were gone for like, two hours.”

“I think Goose found her,” Amir says, feeling numb. He stares across the room at April, who’s being looked over by an EMT.

Another EMT comes over to him and leads him to an armchair in the corner of the room, gently forcing him into it before putting a blood pressure cuff on him.

“That’s low,” she notes.

“I’m unwell,” Amir tells her, and she laughs.

She starts tending to his cuts and abrasions, using a Q-tip to rub something wet into them which makes them sting before going numb. Amir just sits there, being ministered to, trying to listen to all of the noisy conversation around him but unable to focus on any of it. He does catch what sounds like Louis on the phone with Zayn, telling him that April has “returned from walkabout.”

After a few minutes, Evan leaves April’s side and comes over to Amir, kneeling down beside him with a hand on his knee. “Is he okay?” he says to the EMT.

The EMT nods. “He’s fine, he’s just scraped up, and he probably needs to eat something and get some rest.”

“Yeah,” Evan says, studying him. “He always does.”

She wraps gauze around Amir’s right hand, which is pretty badly scraped, then takes her leave of him and goes over to check on April. Evan reaches up and clasps a hand to Amir’s neck, looking at him with large, worried eyes.

“I can’t believe you found her,” he says. “I couldn’t find her, and I’ve literally helped look for missing people before. I was starting to think the worst.”

“I have the maternal instincts,” Amir murmurs. “And I had Goose.”

“Whatever it was, thank God, ‘cos you probably saved her life, seriously. I never would have forgiven myself if something happened… so fucking stupid, leaving the door open, I can’t believe I did that.”

“It’s okay. Things happen.” He says this sort of pointedly.

“They do, yeah.” Evan starts stroking Amir’s face. “I’m so glad you’re okay, too.”

“You guys know I have Find My Friends on, right? It’s twenty-forty-two. I wasn’t gonna get lost in the fucking woods behind my house.”

Evan laughs. “I really missed this Amir,” he says.

“What, the _mean_ Amir?”

“Yes.”

Amir is baffled by this, but he smiles at Evan, who smiles back.

“How’s our baby?” Amir says.

“She's okay,” Evan says, stroking his hair. “She’s just scraped up and tired. Her vitals are all okay, and everything.”

“That’s the longest she’s ever been alone. She was all by herself in the dark, in the woods...”

“I know. She’s tough, though.”

“Can we all sleep in your bed tonight?” Amir murmurs to him.

Evan nods. “Yeah, of course.”

*

The police take forever to leave. They run Amir’s license before they go, and this, of course, flags Amir’s CPS history of going crazy and almost killing himself and his baby, so they take him into the parlor and question him for like an hour, until he feels like his brain is going to fall out of his head. They pull up Hollywood Life articles about him and show them to him, asking him if he’s on drugs right now, if he was on drugs earlier today, if he’s ever on drugs when he’s taking care of his daughter. They ask him if he’s been having thoughts about hurting her, himself, or others. It really seems, for a while, like they’re trying to find a reason to drag him back to the psych ward.

It takes Evan bursting in and going, “I left the fucking door open! It was me! _I’m_ the idiot who let his daughter get lost in the woods, Christ!” before they finally stop torturing Amir. The two officers who stayed to question Amir give Louis and Liam their business cards in case they have any ‘concerns’ to ‘follow up on’, and Louis rips these into shreds in full view of them, then gives them the finger as they’re walking out. Everyone else in the foyer joins him in this, including Amir.

“Yeah, fuck the cops,” Patrick says joyfully.

“Fuck _those_ cops,” Louis says, tossing the business cards on the floor like confetti. “They didn’t even find April! Fucking useless! Fuck am I going to call them for?” He starts coughing, and Mia pats his back. “If I need some dickheads to poke around my property with flashlights and interrogate my son again?”

“Fuck everybody!” Patrick says, throwing his hands in the air. “Does anyone want to watch a movie? I’m not tired at all.”

“Dude, _how_?” Mia says. “I wanna die right now, I’m so tired. I’m gonna go smoke some weed and pass out.”

Louis makes a face of longing when she says ‘weed’.

“Yeah, I’m federal agent Jack Bauer, and this has been the longest day of my life,” Liam says. “Lou also needs to go to bed, whether or not he wants to.”

“I’ll watch a movie with you,” Sunday says to Patrick, nudging him.

“Yeah, I’m down,” Max says, stifling a yawn. “I don’t have anything to do tomorrow.”

“You want to go to bed?” Evan says to Amir.

Liam comes over and passes April to Amir. She’s limp from sleepiness, her eyelids closing over her dark eyes, and she has little spots of liquid bandage on her various cuts and lacerations.

“Hi,” Amir says, cuddling her close and stroking her hair. He wonders if he’ll ever be able to stop worrying about people taking her away from him. “Yeah, bed sounds good.”

They go upstairs, and Amir lies down in Evan’s bed with April, numb with exhaustion, listening to Evan brush his teeth. He reaches out and strokes April’s cheek with his finger, making her giggle.

“Never run away again,” Amir murmurs. “I hated that so much. That sucked.”

“Okay.”

“You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”

“Okay,” April repeats.

“Uh-huh, that’s what I thought.”

“Uh-huh,” April mimics him.

Evan comes out of the bathroom and comes over to them, kneeling on the bed and wrapping his arms around both of them, squeezing them. Amir squeezes him back.

“Hi,” Evan murmurs.

“Hey.”

The three of them lie there for a while. April starts to fall asleep, and Evan sits up so he can pull the covers over her and move her so she’s lying on the pillows. Her golden hair fans around her face.

“Can I tell you something?” Evan whispers to Amir, lying down beside him, facing away from April.

“Yes,” Amir says.

Evan strokes Amir’s hair off his forehead. “I did pull away from you, last year,” he whispers. “After what happened… or what almost happened. I didn’t mean to, but I did.”

Amir remains quiet, watching his face in the dark.

“I just, uh.” Evan sighs, and Amir snuggles up to him, pressing his cheek to Evan’s chest. “Losing you would’ve destroyed me, I know it would have. Especially losing you guys both at once like that. I had to pull away from you… I felt like I would’ve gone crazy if I didn’t. And I had to be tough for April, especially while you were in the hospital. And even when you came back, ‘cos you just weren’t yourself, and you didn’t have much energy to take care of her. I felt like I didn’t have a choice but to just kind of stop myself from feeling anything. Sadness, love, anything. I put it all away.”

Amir draws circles on Evan’s chest with his finger. He’s wearing an old Amsterdam Five shirt that’s almost threadbare from how many times it’s been washed.

“You did too, though,” Evan whispers. “I know you did.”

Amir nods. “I did. I didn’t mean to, I just couldn’t feel anything for so long. I was really numb.”

“I never meant to drive you away. I’m sorry.”

“It wasn’t just you, really, it was everything. I just got to a point where I needed to feel like I was doing something that was my choice… it was a bad choice, but it was my choice. I was starting to feel like I wasn’t even alive anymore.”

“I know. I didn’t know how to help you.”

“I know you didn’t,” Amir murmurs.

Evan kisses him on the head.

“I want to make it work,” Amir says. “I’ll go to couples’ therapy with you, or whatever dumb thing we have to do.”

“Okay.”

“Maybe we could even finally have that wedding reception we meant to have,” Amir says. “It could be like a vow renewal.”

They were planning their reception when Amir got pregnant, and even though he was already legally married, having a wedding while pregnant was too much in the family tradition for his taste. So they had postponed it indefinitely.

“Sure,” Evan murmurs. “That sounds nice.”

*

Despite how exhausted he is, Amir can’t fall asleep right away. Evan falls asleep soon after they finish talking, but Amir lies awake next to his husband and daughter, listening to them breathe. The horrors of the day keep racing through his head. Finally he gets up and tears the sheet off himself, going down the hall to his dad’s room.

He knocks on the door, and it sounds like he interrupts Louis and Liam watching TV. “Come in,” Louis calls.

Amir pushes the door open and leans in. They’re cuddled up in bed, with what they were watching paused. They look at him expectantly, the light from the TV glowing on their faces.

“Hi,” Amir says. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry about, uh, during your intervention for me, when I called you guys washed-up losers or whatever.”

“Jealous, washed-up has-beens, I think it was,” Liam says, and Louis laughs.

“Well, whatever. Sorry. I didn’t mean it, I was just trying to hurt your feelings.”

Liam turns to Louis and stage whispers, “He thinks we didn’t know he was trying to hurt our feelings.” Louis cracks up, slapping at his chest.

Amir stands there, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.

Louis’ laughs finally peter off. “Love, we forgave you ages ago,” he says. “That really wasn’t high on my list of things to be bothered about. Honestly, the things you’ve said when trying to hurt my feelings are actually much less hurtful than the things you’ve said when you _weren’t_ trying.”

“What would those be?” Amir says, appalled.

“Let’s see,” Louis says, ticking off one of his fingers. “How about the time I came to pick you up from Zayn’s, and you threw an hour-long tantrum about how you didn’t want to leave him and come with me? That was properly humiliating. Or the time you asked me if it made me sad that Zayn was better at music than me. I think these are all Zayn-related, come to think of it.”

“I don’t remember any of this, how old was I?”

“Couldn’t’ve been more than five either time.”

“That doesn’t count, then!”

“Oh, but it does,” Louis says, grinning, “‘cos kids don’t lie. So you meant all of that whole-heartedly.”

“Once Sunday asked me if Ceci left me ‘cos I leave so much beard hair in the sink,” Liam says, laughing. “That one got me. I was walking ‘round the whole rest of the day, like, shit, did she?”

“You just wait ‘til April is old enough to start hurting your feelings,” Louis says. “Then we’ll get our revenge. Until then, don’t worry about it. You might want to also apologize to your dad and Harry, though, ‘cos odds are they took the has-beens comment a bit more personally than we did.”

Liam nods. “I can confirm that they did. Harry especially.”

“Niall didn’t care, for the record,” Louis says.

Amir laughs. “Goodnight, guys.”

“Goodnight,” they call to him as he pulls their door shut.

Amir goes back into his room and stands in the doorway for a moment, then goes over to his backpack where it’s lying on the floor on his royal blue rug. He kneels beside it, hesitating, then unzips the front pocket and takes out the Altoid container inside it.

It’s stuffed to the brim with Xanax pills. Hulk bars, specifically. Amir has been weaning himself down to half of one of these a day, but he takes a two with a sip of water, then sits back on his heels and exhales.

He feels guilty, and like a fuck-up, but he also feels the undeniable relief of knowing that calm bliss is around the corner. Nothing hits like Xanax does.

Amir returns to Evan and April, who are still snoozing soundly. He pulls the sheets back and climbs in bed next to Evan, spooning him, kissing the back of his neck.

He’ll try again tomorrow to be his most sober self, on a day that isn’t so hard, on a day that doesn’t remind him so much of The Incident.

SACRAMENTO, JULY 17, 2042

Mia sleeps very soundly and gets up earlier than usual, around 8. It’s the beginning of a lovely summer day — the air is crisp, but the sun is soft and hazy. She stands outside for a while, sipping an iced coffee and looking out over the hills, then heads back when her cup is empty.

Louis is in the breakfast nook with a cup of tea. He must have snuck downstairs while she was out back. “Morning,” he says.

Mia pours himself some more coffee before coming over and sitting down across from him. “Hey.”

He looks up from his phone. “You look cheerful.”

Mia nods. “I feel alright,” she says.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, I’m surprised, too.”

“Been a while.”

“It has,” she admits.

Louis smiles at her.

“Dad?” Mia says.

“Yeah.”

“I’m gonna go to Germany. I’m probably gonna stay out the year there to be with Aya. And I don’t think I’ll go back to the team next season.”

Louis nods, looking out the window, trailing his thumb over the handle of his mug. “I reckoned,” he says.

“Did you?”

“Yeah. I know you fell out of love with it a while back.”

Mia’s crestfallen and doesn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry.”

“Love, don’t apologize. All I want is for you to be happy.”

“But this was, like, our dream.”

“Hey, we lived the dream. I got to see you play in hundreds of games. You played your heart out. You got injured and came back, and you had a great senior year. You went pro. I can’t ask for more, love.”

Mia’s eyes get hot. “Okay.”

“You’re not letting me down,” Louis says intently. “You’re not. I want you to be happy. If it doesn’t make you happy anymore, stop doing it.”

She laughs. “Okay, okay.”

“So, you and Aya?”

“Yeah. We’ve been talking a lot… I called her last night before I went to bed, and told her what happened, and it was just nice. I dunno. She knows me, she gets me. I want to give it another shot.” Mia shrugs. “Even if it doesn’t work.”

“Maybe it will,” Louis says, smiling.

“I just feel so bad leaving you guys, though, especially right now.”

“Are you kidding? Get the fuck out of here. I’ve been wanting you to go live your life for ages.”

Mia laughs harder.

“I love havin’ you around, don’t get me wrong,” Louis adds, “but Christ, not at the expense of you and your happiness. You can always come home, love. You’ve done more than enough for all of us, and you’re not getting any younger. Go chase a new dream. That’s what life’s about.”

“Thank you,” she says emotionally.

“Can’t believe you thought I’d be narked about you retiring from footie,” Louis says, shaking his head. “Only given like seventeen years of your life to it, yeah, what a skiver. C’mon, Mims. You made it, love, you played football for money! Played football in Japan! Even played football in England! I couldn’t be more proud of you, but I’d be proud of you even if you hadn’t done any of that. Don’t be silly.”

Mia reaches across the table and takes his hand, squeezing it. He squeezes her back, but uses the other hand to continue sipping his tea.

“Can I ask you for one thing, though, if I go?” she says. “Can you promise to take good care of yourself? ‘Cos I really don’t know what Liam would do if something happened to you. I swear he’d just drop dead of grief.”

Louis swallows a sip of tea and starts laughing, then sets his cup down and brings his hand to his eyes. “I know,” he moans. “I think about that all the time.”

“Like, we’d probably have to put him in a home.”

Louis cracks up so hard that he starts coughing. “I’ll go to the doctor more often,” he agrees.

“Thank you.”

*

Dr. Biswas is an older guy with an office in the city who always makes a lot of unhappy noises at Amir. Today is no exception.

“You are in lousy shape for a thin, healthy young man,” he says disapprovingly, placing his stethoscope back around his neck. “You have very little body fat. You’re married with a baby, yes? You wouldn’t be able to have another, right now. I don’t even know how you had the first one. And your circulation is poor.”

“I don’t want to have another baby right now,” Amir says, resting his hands on the edge of the exam table, the disposable paper crinkling beneath them.

Biswas ignores this. “Your breathing is also poor. It’s labored.”

“I’ve been doing a ton of cocaine for the last six months,” Amir says. “On top of the Xanax I was telling you about on the phone.”

“ _Cocaine_?” Biswas repeats.

“Yes.”

“How much?”

“Several grams a day, pretty much every day. And I was drinking, too.”

Biswas sighs, then sits down in his chair. “Well, that’s all very bad.”

“I did stop, though, like a week ago.”

“That’s good. Cocaine destroys your brain, you know.” He makes a bomb exploding gesture with his hand. “You take too much for too long, poof, your brain and your heart, they just blow up.”

“Is that the medical term for it?”

Biswas laughs. “This does explain the poor circulation and the breathing. Your body is recovering. You basically made it run a marathon every day for six months. How are you doing with stopping? That’s very hard to do by yourself.”

“Yeah,” Amir admits. “It has been hard.”

“And Xanax, you can’t get off on your own. I told you, you need medically supervised detox, or you’ll kill yourself by accident.”

Amir nods, staring down at his feet, kicking the heels of his sneakers against the exam table.

“Do you need me to recommend an inpatient program?” Biswas says.

Amir shakes his head. “I don’t want to go to rehab, I want to be home with my daughter.”

“Okay. Well, there is outpatient rehab. You would only go about thirty hours a week, and do therapy, education, things like that. There are good programs around here, for people with money, which you have.” Biswas clicks his tongue off his teeth. “A doctor there will be able to help you get off Xanax slowly.”

“I went down to a milligram a day like you said,” Amir says. “Except yesterday, uh, my daughter got lost in the woods, and we had to call the police and shit, it was a whole thing. She’s fine, but I took, like, four milligrams so I could sleep… on top of the milligram I took earlier.”

“Ay-yi-yi… Amir.”

“I know.”

“This is a lot of Xanax. This is a lot of drugs in general. You weigh a hundred and thirty-five pounds, you are playing with fire. You could stop your heart.”

“I know.”

“Do you want to stay alive for your daughter?”

Amir nods hard. “Yes.”

“Okay. You need to wise up, then. Stop thinking you’re invincible.” Biswas gives him a steady look over the rim of his glasses. “You’re not.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t. You are a polysubstance abuser. You could have died many times already, it’s only luck that you’re here. You have no idea.”

“I’ll do what I have to do,” Amir says. “I’m serious, I mean it.”

Finding April in the woods didn’t change everything, but it did fan the little spark of hope in his heart into a small fire. After all, he was the one who went into the woods and rescued her when no one else could. He might have saved her life. She really does need him — he’s secure in that knowledge for the first time since The Incident.

“Alright. Let me make some calls, then, I’ll see if I can get you into a program starting Monday.” Biswas rolls his chair over to his desk and picks up his phone, starting to dial it.

“Monday?” Amir says in disbelief, but Biswas doesn’t hear him — he’s talking to the receptionist, asking her to patch him through to a Dr. Walsh.

Monday. That’s so soon. Amir sits there, still kicking his feet, listening to his doctor talk. Is the situation really that dire? It must be, for everyone to keep reacting the way they do, but he still feels like everything is ultimately fine, like he has it all under control.

Some doubt pierces Amir’s bravado and creeps under his skin. For once he’s not the smartest person in the room.

*

When Amir gets home, everyone is out back in the pool. Despite the sound-blocking hedges that surround the circular driveway, he can hear them shouting and splashing around while he walks up to the front door and presses his palm to the biometric scanner.

He walks into the foyer and notices something on the table where they usually set mail and things like that — it’s a massive Edible Arrangement, with a card that says AMIR on the front.

Amir goes over to it and opens it. As he does, he hears footsteps coming down the stairs, and hears Louis say, “Hey, how was the doctor? What’d he say?”

The card reads, _Hey man, hope you’re doing okay. We’re here if you need anything. - Jordan and Greg_

Amir feels like his heart is swelling to fill his entire chest cavity, and his eyes get hot for what must be the fiftieth time that week. He bends over the table, his face pressed to his biceps.

“You alright?” Louis says, sounding worried.

“Yeah,” Amir murmurs. “This is just really nice, I wasn’t expecting it.”

“Oh, yeah, your old roommates sent that, didn’t they? I thought that was nice of them, too. I was a bit nervous when it got here, ‘cos we try to make sure no one has this address, but then I remembered they came for a visit once. They were nice boys.”

“They are nice boys,” Amir says, feeling like he might actually cry.

“So what did your doctor say, love?”

Amir looks up at his dad, then straightens up and clears his throat. “I start outpatient rehab on Monday,” he says. “He said I kinda had to, ‘cos I’ll need help getting off Xanax.”

Louis nods, folding his arms. “Is that what you want?”

“No, but I don’t really have a choice.”

“But you’ll commit to it? You’re ready to do that?”

Amir thinks about it. “I think I am,” he says. “I really do.”

“Good lad.”

“I need some money,” he says, looking pitifully at his dad. “It’s not as expensive as inpatient, but it’s not gonna be cheap.”

“I know,” Louis says. “I remember how much it cost when Zayn went. How much d’you need?”

“Like twenty grand.”

“That’s fine. I’ll take care of it. Look, why don’t you go out back to the pool? They’re all out there. April’s turning into an aces swimmer, actually. She’s athletic, that one.”

Amir smiles. “She gets that from Evan,” he says, making Louis laugh. “Yeah, alright. I’ll go get changed.”

“Good,” Louis says, smiling, his eyes twinkling.

They both head back upstairs, and Louis returns to the nest he’s made around his bed of several TVs, two laptops, and half of the video game consoles in the house, including their VR apparatus.

Amir goes down the hall to his room and jumps onto his bed, rolling over onto his back, his down comforter squishing underneath him. He stares up at the ceiling fan for a moment, then slips his earpiece into his ear and pulls up his contacts on his watch. He taps Zayn’s number, ignoring the fact that he now has 734 unread text messages.

Who the fuck is texting him so much? While the phone rings, he scrolls through his inbox: Evan’s sister Rachel texted him, Jeff texted him, Jeff’s people, several of his aunts, a girl he met at a club in Amsterdam, Lionel, Frankie, several of his high school friends, his old friend Teddy, multiple college friends, several of the musicians he played with or met in New Orleans, an A&R guy from Atlantic, a guy with his security team, a producer he worked with on his first single, some of the guys from the Amsterdam Five.

The list goes on and on in a totally overwhelming way, and he can only see the first five words of each text on his watch, but they seem to come in a dizzying variety. “ _just wanted to reach out…” “Hey there” “been seeing a lot of…” “I’d like you to dispel…” “would be cool to work…” “Stop going ghost” “Dude what is your deal…” “hi Amir i miss you…” “Hope you’re doing okay and…” “you are such a fucking…” “thought we had a connection” “This is not the kind of…” “wya?” “are you just not responding…” “I’ve sent you 12 emails…” “Wtf lmao” “Amir wtf” “where are you” “I’m getting very tired of…””I need you to please…” “i’m really disappointed in your…” “YO WHERE ARE YOU???????”_

On top of that, he’s also in a bunch of group chats that are helping to deluge him with texts even though he hasn’t participated in them in weeks or months.

“Hullo?” Zayn says, finally picking up.

“I’m never answering a single text message ever again,” Amir tells him.

Zayn laughs. “Alright, don’t.”

Amir stretches out in his bed, trying to ease the constant feeling of achy discomfort that’s been plaguing him since he quit coke. “I’m starting outpatient rehab on Monday,” he says. “My doctor got me into a program.”

“Oh, good, good.”

“I just really didn’t want to do inpatient.”

“No, I get that,” Zayn says. “It’s a massive commitment.”

Amir’s quiet for a moment. “Did you miss me and Mia, when you went to rehab?”

“Of course.”

“How much?”

“Oh, Amir… I dunno. Loads.”

“But you went anyway…” Amir rubs at his nose. “And you went on tour when we were little…”

Zayn is quiet.

“I know I’m hypocritical for even saying that,” Amir says, blinking as he stares up at the ceiling light. “I’m just trying to figure things out.”

“Figure what out?”

“I dunno… what happened, I guess? Why I am the way I am.”

“Yeah, well, blaming it all on me won’t get you very far,” Zayn says. His tone is lighthearted, but there’s an edge to it.

“I wasn’t planning on it,” Amir mutters.

“Alright.”

“My doctor called me a substance abuser.”

Zayn sighs. “You are a substance abuser.”

No I’m not, Amir wants to say. I’m a classically trained pianist. I’m multilingual. I’m a singer with a four-octave vocal range. I’m a husband and father. I’m a Royal Academy of Music fellow and a professional musician. I’m a math whiz. I’m a friend and a cousin and a nephew and a son. I’m _your_ son.

Instead he says, “I don’t want to be one.”

“I know.”

Amir is silent for a long moment, still looking up at the ceiling.

“It’s gonna be hard for a while,” Zayn says. “It’s like you got off a rollercoaster, you’re dizzy and sick, you hate having your feet on the ground. But you can’t get back on, ‘cos then you’ll just be dizzy and sick on a rollercoaster. You have to get used to the ground.”

“Yeah,” Amir murmurs.

“And you can’t bring your kid on a rollercoaster with you.”

“Right.”

“She’s too small to fit in the seats,” Zayn says drily, and Amir laughs. “Look, you’re gonna be fine, you really are. It’s just going to take some time, is all. You’re very impatient, always have been.”

“I know.”

“Life’s lived in decades, not days. Relax.”

Amir inhales deeply, closing his eyes. “I know you’re right.”

“I am.”

“I’ll let you go, I was just calling to update you.”

“I appreciate it,” Zayn says. “Keep updatin’ me, please. And look, don’t answer those texts if you don’t want to. No offense, but half the people texting you right now are gonna forget you exist once you’ve been out of the headlines for a few weeks, so there’s no need to stress yourself about them.”

Amir laughs. “Thanks, I guess.”

“You still planning to FaceTime the girls tonight?”

“Of course. I promised them I would.”

“Alright, good. Call me anytime.”

“Love you, Dad.”

“Love you too.”

*

Louis is permitted to be up and about for dinner as well as breakfast, now, so every evening he watches the clock and hops out of bed as soon as he thinks he can get away with it. Today, that’s at 5:45 — a bit early, but not so early that Liam will bust his balls about it.

In the kitchen, the twins are at the island with Liam, who’s teaching Patrick how to make ravioli by hand. Patrick is following along intently. He has on an apron that’s covered in flour, as well as a smudge of flour on his nose, which tugs at Louis’ heart. He’s still in denial that his boys are leaving him in a month.

Max doesn’t have an apron on; he’s watching from a distance.

“You want to be able to see the shadow of your hand through the dough,” Liam says to Patrick, while the two of them roll out dough side by side.

“Isn’t that pretty thin?” Patrick says.

“It’ll be thin, yeah, but we want it thin.”

“Yes chef,” Patrick says, making Liam snort and bump shoulders with him.

“You just observing, not scrubbing in?” Louis says to Max, who looks up and smiles.

“Dough scares me,” he says. “It’s so fragile.”

“You just manhandle everything,” Patrick murmurs, watching his hands with intense concentration.

“I do,” Max sighs. “I don’t mean to.”

“Well, not everything,” Liam says. “Not animals or babies. Just, like, doors, and electronics, and ravioli dough.”

“Of course not animals and babies,” Max says, laughing. “I’m not the guy from, uh... “

“ _Of Mice and Men_ ,” Patrick supplies.

“Yeah, that one.”

Louis can hear piano from somewhere in the house; it makes his ears perk up. “Is Amir playing the piano?” he whispers to them.

They all nod.

“I think his hands are bothering him, though,” Liam says, glancing up from his dough. “I keep hearing him stop and go ‘fuck!’”

“Max, can you fetch me the aspirin?”

Max agreeably goes over to the cabinets and starts rooting around for their kitchen aspirin.

“What’re you putting in these raviolis?” Louis says to Patrick and Liam.

“Spinach and _rigott_ ,” Patrick says in an exaggerated Italian-American accent, punctuating it with a hand gesture.

“What’s the sauce?”

“Sage butter,” Liam says.

“The fuck’s that?”

“Shoo,” Liam says, waving his hand at Louis. “You’re distracting the chefs.”

“Yeah, go away,” Patrick says.

“Alright, alright,” Louis says, taking the aspirin bottle from Max. “Rude.”

“Not rude, we’re trying to feed you,” Liam says. “Trying to trick you into eating spinach, in fact.”

“I like spinach!”

“You like it when I cook it with butter and cheese and wrap it in dough, yes.”

“Is that not still spinach?” Louis calls over his shoulder as he heads back into the hallway, making his way toward the sound of the piano. He passes the den and sees Mia and Sunday curled up on the couch, watching mindless reality TV together.

Their grand piano is in the parlor, where it’s sat mostly untouched for the last two years, ever since Amir and Evan moved out. Louis plays it sometimes, but he hasn’t since Amir left for tour.

Louis leans on the doorway, watching Amir, who’s playing with his eyes closed. His hands move easily over the keys, creating a loose melody that’s enjoyable to just stand there and listen to.

After a minute or so, Amir opens his eyes and blinks at Louis, playing an arpeggio with one hand as he runs the other through his hair to push it out of his face. “How long have you been there?”

“Not long,” Louis says. “How’re the hands?”

Amir holds them up. “It’s just the right one... I keep getting a muscle spasm.”

Louis comes over to him and hands him the bottle of aspirin. Amir takes it and shakes two into his hand, then downs them with a sip of water from a bottle that was sitting atop the piano.

“Gimme your hand,” Louis says, offering his own. Amir puts his right hand in Louis’, and Louis starts massaging it, digging his thumb into his flexor tendons.

Amir sucks in air between his teeth.

“I know it hurts,” Louis murmurs. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“D’you put ice on it?”

“Sometimes. When I can remember.”

“You’ve got to put ice on it, love,” Louis says. He stares down at Amir’s hand as he rubs it, taking in for the first time the floral tattoo that spans the back of it and wraps around his wrist. “What’s the deal with this ink?”

Amir looks down at it and snorts. “If I tell you, you’re gonna think I’m so stupid.”

“Try me.”

“I wanted to get a daisy and a narcissus, for April, ‘cos daisies are the flower for April, and narcissus is the flower for December, so like, her actual birth month. But when Jason and I got to the shop, we were so loaded I literally blacked out.”

“And they tattooed you anyway?”

Amir nods. “I was very persuasive, Jason told me later,” he says drily. “Anyway, I woke up and I had this tattoo. Apparently I just kept telling the guy ‘Flowers. Do flowers.’ So he did those. I think they’re windflowers? I dunno. I’m gonna try to add what I originally wanted alongside them, so it isn’t a total waste of canvas.”

Louis points to his left hand. “What’s on your knuckles there?”

Amir wiggles his fingers. “Moon phases. Got it at the same time as this one.” He points to a tattoo of an intertwined moon and sun on the back of his left hand.

“You sober for those?”

“I mean, no, but I was conscious, at least. I did actually want this one, I thought it was a cool idea.”

Louis continues massaging his right hand. “Well, thank God you’ll never have to apply for a normal job, is all I’m gonna say.”

Amir laughs. “That’s pretty hypocritical.”

“No, it’s not, ‘cos by the time I started coverin’ myself in tattoos, I knew full well I’d never have to work another day of me life if I didn’t want to.”

Amir then tilts his left hand and points to Roman numerals running up the length of his wrist. “This one’s April’s birthday… twelve twenty-five.”

“So... Christmas?”

This had obviously never occurred to him, because his eyes get huge. “Ah, shit!”

Louis cracks up.

“I always forget she was born on Christmas,” Amir groans. “I have a _Christmas_ tattoo? Seriously?”

“You’re a bit of a shit Muslim, honestly.”

“I know!”

“Well, they can’t really fault you your daughter shares a birthday with Jesus.”

“They kind of can, actually, since she should’ve been born in February.”

Louis shrugs, still rubbing his hand. “What’re you gonna do? It happened how it happened.”

“Evan still blames me for it, though,” he says, his tone sulky.

“I know,” Louis says, glancing at Amir, who’s staring down at the piano. “That’s marriage, love, that’s having a long history wiv someone. There’s always loads of blame to go around.”

“It wasn’t my fault,” Amir mutters. “He doesn’t get it, he has no idea how sick I felt. I already don’t have an appetite, and I was nauseated literally all the time. I did my best.”

Louis strokes his hair. “I know, love. I don’t blame you. April won’t blame you, either.”

Amir sighs.

“Did you tell him about rehab yet?” Louis says.

“Nah, not yet. I thought it was kinda heavy, I didn’t want to dump it on him while everyone was having fun.” He clears his throat. “I’ll tell him later tonight. He took April with him to go get the eggs from the henhouse, and I didn’t wanna, y’know… I want her to be in bed when I tell him.”

Louis squeezes his hand. “You know, love, even if you manage to put this behind you for good, she’s gonna find out someday that you’ve struggled with a drug problem.”

Amir leans his left elbow on the piano, hitting several keys at random. “I know,” he says, sounding grief-stricken.

“I’m just saying, you don’t have to be ashamed or secretive about it. Struggling ain’t shameful, it’s human.”

“I know, but Evan’s ashamed of me, and he won’t be able to hide that reaction when I tell him. I don’t want her to pick up on that.”

“I don’t think he’s ashamed of you, love. He _wants_ you to do rehab, he wouldn’t judge you for doing it.”

“That’s not what I mean, I mean that he’s not okay with the fact that I have to go in the first place.” Amir shrugs. “He doesn’t mean to be ashamed, but it’s a kneejerk thing. It’s his Prostestant, like, Republican upbringing. His mom’s a pillhead, and his brother’s a giant cokehead himself, but they’re slick about it. If you’re being publicly humiliated about it in the tabloids, if you admit you’re an addict and actually seek help, then you’re a loser. It’s all about perception with them.”

“Isn’t it possible you’re projecting a bit?”

“I’m sure I am,” Amir says. “But it’s also true. It’s possible for both me _and_ him to be ashamed of me. And that’s fine, it is what it is.”

“Alright.” Louis lets go of his hand. “I’ll leave it alone.”

“Thank you.”

“Keep at the piano, I liked what you were playin’ when I came in.”

“Yeah?” Amir sounds pleased. “It’s something I just started writing. I only have the melody, though, I haven’t really been in a lyrics mood.”

“I could help with the lyrics, if you like.”

Amir glances up at him. “Yeah, that’d be cool,” he says, his voice soft.

Louis smiles at him. “You’re not a loser, you know,” he says.

“You _have_ to say that, though, you’re my dad.”

“No, I have to say it ‘cos it’s true. But the reason you’re not a loser is ‘cos there’s no such thing as winners and losers. There’s fighters and there’s quitters, and you’re a fighter.”

“I don’t know if I am, though.”

“You are. All my kids are. I don’t raise quitters.”

Amir smiles wryly, then resumes playing the piano, his fingers moving with skilled grace over the keys. “If you say so.”

*

Amir gets seductive with Evan that night without meaning to. It’s just an instinctive thing — he wants the upper hand, he wants to be in charge. He’s pissed off about how humiliating it’s going to be to tell Evan about rehab, and he wants to flex his power over him if he’s going to do that. “Yeah, you were right, I’m a drug addict, and yeah, you were right, I have to do rehab, and yeah, this is going to be yet another thing that will get leaked to the press and cause problems for me and you and our little baby daughter, and cause the never-ending harassment of us to spike again. But look how pussywhipped _you_ are.”

Amir follows Evan into his room when he goes to bed that night, wrapping his arms around his waist while he brushes his teeth, then kissing him when he turns around. He leads Evan over to the bed and flops down on it, spreading his legs.

“Okay,” Evan says, looking happy. “What’s this about?”

“It’s my version of couples’ therapy,” Amir murmurs. “I’m tired of talking.”

“Bet,” Evan says, whipping his belt out of its loops and yanking his pants down.

Amir lies back and hands him a condom that he had dug out of a dresser drawer in his room. Despite what his doctor said, he’s not taking any chances. Even if he’s too malnourished and drug-ravaged to sustain a pregnancy, he doesn’t trust his body to not at least try to _get_ pregnant, then realize its error and make him deal with a miscarriage. That would be just his luck right now.

They have very fast, mostly silent sex. Much like the other night, it’s more about relieving how pent-up they both are than it is about intimacy, which is fine. Everything is still too raw between them for them to be really intimate. Amir thinks he would start bawling anew if Evan nuzzled his neck and kissed his face while he fucked him.

Evan spoons him when it’s over, and Amir just lies there limp, glad to be in his arms but physically and mentally spent.

“Gotta talk to you about something,” he murmurs after a while.

Evan shifts against him. “Yeah?”

Amir stares at the tattoo of Roman numerals on his wrist. “I’m gonna start outpatient rehab on Monday,” he says. “I kind of have to, ‘cos I’m not supposed to get off Xanax by myself, so my doctor got me into a program.”

“Oh, okay. Good.”

Amir rolls over and nuzzles into his chest. Evan strokes his hair.

“Everyone’s gonna know,” he murmurs. “I can’t hide this. There’s paps looking for me all over Sacramento. I’ll be able to hide it a few days, tops.”

“Amir, no offense, but people already know you have a drug problem.”

“They don’t _know_ know. They don’t _rehab_ know.”

“If it wasn’t rehab, the story would be something else,” Evan says. “It would be something worse, like you getting arrested, or ODing, or us breaking up and our custody shit getting into the papers. And anyway, it’s in the news now that Jason’s in rehab, so it’s not like it’s a huge jump for you to be going, too. And rehab is a good thing.”

“You say that ‘cos you don’t have to go. You say that ‘cos you see me as this like, sick squirrel that needs to be rehabilitated all the time.”

“I say that ‘cos you have a drug problem, Amir!”

“Maybe I could stop on my own. I already kind of have.”

“You just said you can’t get off Xanax on your own!” Evan wriggles away from him, sitting up in the bed.

Amir continues lying there, feeling defeated. “I’m just dreading this so much,” he mutters. “I don’t want to deal with it.”

“You have to.”

“You don’t get it.”

“I do,” Evan says. “You don’t want to deal with your shit. You think I don’t get that? I don’t want to deal with shit, either. That’s why it pisses me off so much when you leave me to deal with your shit on your behalf.”

Amir curls up into a ball, groaning. “No, I mean you really, really don’t get it. The paps are gonna wait for me outside the rehab center, they’re gonna say horrible things to me. People in group therapy are gonna know who I am. If I ever want to get back into music, people are gonna be like, ‘Wow, why did you fuck over your manager like that? Didn’t you get kicked off a tour? Aren’t you _difficult_? Aren’t you crazy? Aren’t you on drugs? Everyone says so!’”

“So, what, you’ll just hide in your dad’s house forever?” Evan says. “You’ll just never deal with any of that?”

“You’ve got no idea how bad that shit feels! And you want to punish me by making me deal with it, ‘cos you’re ashamed of me and angry at me, and that’s your revenge!”

“I want to make you deal with it ‘cos it’s your shit to deal with! I didn’t do this to you!”

“You all want me to wear a scarlet letter,” Amir rages. He knows he’s just being straight-up insane right now, and a brat, but these are the feelings that he feels. “You wanted me to come home with my tail between my legs, and now you want to ship me off to rehab just like you shipped me off to the psych ward —”

“Dude, you have this so fucking backwards,” Evan says, sounding exhausted. “You keep acting like you’re so powerless, and we all think you’re pathetic — where are you even getting that? You’ve had this entire family locked into your cycle of shit for the last six months. None of us could live our normal lives. We were all being held hostage by you. I know that sounds bad, but it’s true.”

Amir exhales. Rage and self-dislike are mixing in him, creating a toxic sludge. “I’m sick of me, too,” he says. “Trust me.”

“I’m not saying I’m sick of you.”

“But you are.” He’s quiet for a moment. “You saw how those cops looked at me last night... I’m gonna get that from everyone. I already was getting it, but I was so high I didn’t feel it. Now I have to feel all of it, and it’s even worse, ‘cos it leaked I was in the psych ward, and everyone knows I got kicked off the tour.”

“Not everyone’s against you, Amir,” Evan says. He sounds tired.

“Public opinion is. The industry is.”

“Not even… hang on a second.”

He hears Evan fiddling with his watch, and then Amir’s watch buzzes on his wrist. He glances at it and sees a text with a link attached.

“Read that article,” Evan tells him.

Amir sits up in bed and leans against their pillows, flicking his watch display down onto his forearm.

It’s a link to an NME article with the headline, _Music Journalists, We’ve Failed Another Budding Talent,_ and a photo of him underneath. It was posted just a few days ago.

Amir’s heart jolts in his chest, and he gets the familiar urge to back away and disengage before he gets his feelings hurt, but he scrolls down and keeps reading.

_It would be so easy to dislike Amir Tomlinson-Malik, but I can’t bring myself to._

_Earlier this year, everyone wanted a piece of him, and it was easy to see why. When children of celebrities are luminously talented, we notice — it’s easy to awe the world with your talents when the world’s eyes are already on you. How many equally talented musicians watched with resentment as his star rose, knowing they would never get the shot he got automatically, through sheer nepotism?_

_But how many equally troubled people out there will never have their personal lives ripped apart in print, the way we did to his without once questioning it?_

_There’s me, for one. I’m an addict (17 years sober). I can’t imagine what it would have been like to have had millions of people watching with morbid curiosity, or even glee, as I hit rock bottom. I can’t imagine what it would be like to have those same people think my humiliation was owed to them, and that there wasn’t a single part of my life that was truly private or my own._

_I also can’t imagine enduring constant comparisons to my parents and step-parents, and having not only my career, but my very existence, be a collaboration between the members of one of the most famous musical groups of the century._

_He was marketed by Atlantic Records as an unflappable rookie, a bad boy outsider with an insider’s shrewdness. This image was only bolstered by his refusal to participate in the hamster wheel of promo and social media management that characterizes new stardom, which might have spelled the downfall for an artist less blessed by parental fame._

_But it seems like that fame is both a blessing and a curse for him. As more details have trickled out about Amir after his abrupt departure from Jya’s 2042 tour, a more disturbing image has begun to form: that of a troubled young father shouldering immense pressure, preyed upon by his industry, estranged from his family, and seeking refuge in oblivion._

_I can’t comment on his alleged misbehavior on tour; I don’t know him. But I’ve noticed an uneasiness among music journalists this week as many of us have begun to rethink the vicious hit pieces we raced each other to write about him._

_I don’t want to see any more talented young musicians die before their time. I hope Amir is able to get the help he needs, and return to the industry when he’s ready. I don’t want to be complicit in yet another avoidable tragedy._

There’s more, but Amir doesn’t want to read it. Reading about himself for too long makes him start to disassociate.

He flicks his watch off and lies there, staring into the soft darkness.

“I’m ‘easy to dislike’?” he finally says.

Evan laughs. “Is that all you took away from that?”

“Well, am I?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“It’s nice to see someone apologizing, I guess,” Amir mutters.

Evan reaches out for his hand and takes it, intertwining their fingers. “I’m not expecting you to get over all this shit overnight,” he says. “I get that you’re like, dealing with stuff that’s just, like, compounded on itself. But look, the tabloid stuff will die down, and in the meantime, the people that love you will do whatever we have to to help you through this. You get that, right? If I have to come with you to rehab every day and beat the shit out of the paparazzi that are there, I will.”

Amir chokes on a laugh. “You won’t.”

“I will, dude! I’ll do whatever we need to do! I’m with you, okay? I’ve got you, we’re a team. If you’ll fight for you, I’ll fight for you. If you’ll fight for us, I’ll fight for us. All you have to do is meet me halfway.”

Amir leans into Evan’s shoulder, tentatively snuggling up against him. Evan rests his cheek on Amir’s head.

“You could be with someone normal,” Amir mutters. “Someone you didn’t have to fight with all the time.”

“I’d rather fight with you than be with someone else.”

“Someone you didn’t have to be ashamed of.”

“I’ve never been ashamed of you.”

Amir closes his eyes, tears leaking down his cheeks. “I just want it to be over,” he says, his voice tight and hoarse. “I don’t wanna be in this much pain anymore. I can’t do it. I’m not tough.”

“You are.”

“I swear to God, I’m not. I’m weak,” he cries, crumbling in Evan’s arms. “I’m so weak.”

Evan holds him, shushing him and kissing him.

“I don’t want to go to rehab,” Amir sobs. “Please don’t make me go.”

“You have to, babe.”

“I’m so tired of this shit. I’m so tired of people trying to fix me.”

“They’re not trying to fix you… they want to help you.”

Amir clings to him, aching.

Evan’s quiet for a while. “Try to think of it like this — maybe rehab’ll actually be really good,” he says. “Maybe you’ll be really glad you went. You need help, and you need help that none of us can give you.”

“I know I do.”

“And April needs you to get that help. She needs her dad.”

“I know,” he says, sniffing.

Evan kisses him on the head. “People rely on you, okay? You’re needed, you’re not a burden. We need you to be okay.”

Amir nods with difficulty, his throat still burning, warm tears still trickling down his cheeks. He feels a little better now that he’s vented.

“Sorry,” he says.

“It’s okay,” Evan says.

“This wasn’t supposed to be my life,” Amir murmurs. “I wasn’t supposed to be a fuck-up and a loser.”

“You’re not a fuck-up or a loser, you’re a jazz musician. You’re always telling me that all the jazz greats had terrible lives and ODed.”

Amir starts laughing. “At least I’m not on heroin, I guess.”

“See? There you go.” Evan’s quiet for a moment. “I can come with you to rehab, by the way, like to walk you in. I wasn’t kidding about that.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, I can go into work a little later some days, it’s fine. My boss has been pretty understanding about this whole thing. It’ll take the heat off you if I do, ‘cos they want to harass me too, they’ve been trying to get a comment from me ever since it leaked that my dad cut me off.”

Amir nods, his stubbly cheek rubbing against Evan’s t-shirt. “Okay. I’d appreciate that.”

“It’d shut them up about us, too, if we’re a united front. At least a little bit.”

“Yeah,” Amir agrees, though his hopes for that aren’t high. “So you’ve been reading stuff, then?”

“Reading stuff?”

“Coverage. About me.”

Evan’s quiet for a moment. “Yeah, I was kind of addicted to it when you were on tour. It was the only way I could find stuff out about you, besides label guys leaking stuff to your dad and Jeff’s wife leaking stuff to Harry.”

It’s always ‘leaking’, people are always ‘leaking’. That phrasing makes Amir feel like he’s the Department of Defense instead of a human being.

“Half of those stories are made-up, though,” Amir says.

“I got pretty good at telling the made-up stuff from the true stuff,” Evan says.

“Like what?”

“I mean, they don’t make it hard. Like, I knew you weren’t pregnant, even though they reported that all the time. But stuff like, y’know, that you were doing a ton of drugs, getting kicked out of clubs, trashing hotel rooms, getting in these huge public fights with people, falling down drunk in the street, cussing out Jeff, playing shows high —”

“Okay,” Amir interrupts him. “Okay. Thanks.”

“I’m just saying, that stuff was always either obvious, or they had video or photos of it. Like if I see a video of you passed out facedown on the sidewalk in a puddle of vomit, and your bodyguard has to pull your limp body into a car, I’m not gonna be like, wow, they’re saying he was fucked up? Libel!”

There’s a note of nasty sarcasm in Evan’s voice that makes Amir wince. “Please don’t be mean to me,” he says.

“I’m not, I’m just being honest. That was the kind of shit I got to see every day. Videos of you cussing out club bouncers, and peeing in the street, and hanging out with fans, like, completely wasted with giant pupils and white powder in your nose.”

“You’re being mean,” Amir mutters. “That’s mean.”

“Sorry.” Evan strokes his hair apologetically. “I just can’t do that ever again, y’know? I really can’t. I can’t be with you and not be able to know if you’re okay. Or know you’re _not_ okay, and not be able to talk to you.”

Amir’s exhausted, suddenly. “I wasn’t miserable on purpose to punish you,” he says. “I really felt like that. I felt that bad. I _still_ feel that bad.”

“I know you weren’t, but that doesn’t mean it hasn’t affected me.”

“I’m just saying, it’s not something I did to you.”

“But we’re married, we have a kid. It’s not just you that’s affected by what you do.”

“I get that!”

Evan strokes his hair some more. “Look, I don’t think you’re a fuck-up. I don’t. I don’t think anyone _is_ anything, I think we all have the ability to, like, grow and change. I used to act like an idiot, that doesn’t mean I was an idiot. I was probably kind of a shitty husband, last year, but I don’t think that means I’m a shitty husband forever. And I don’t think you’re a fuck-up, I think you just fucked up. I don’t think you’re a drug addict, I think you just got addicted to drugs.”

Amir shifts on Evan’s chest, nuzzling closer to him. “Yeah,” he murmurs.

“And we’ve both almost gotten April killed without meaning to, now, so uh, maybe we can call ourselves even on that one and just move on from it.”

This is so dark, it shouldn’t at all be funny, but Amir cracks up anyway.

“So just think about it like, uh… physical therapy, y’know? It’s like you got injured and you need help rehabbing your ankle, or something. It’s not that you’re stupid, or a bad person, you just need help. You’re not a physical therapist, none of us are physical therapists.”

Amir considers this. “Can we call it physical therapy, when we talk about it?”

“Dude, whatever helps you with this, I’ll do it. Whatever gets you there, I’m happy to do. We can roll up dressed as clowns and shoot water at the paparazzi, whatever you want.”

Amir snorts.

“Does that make you feel better about going?” Evan says.

“It kinda does, yeah.”

SACRAMENTO, JULY 18, 2042

When Evan wakes the next morning, Amir is already fully dressed and sitting at the edge of the bed with April. He has a freshly buzzed head and is wearing a gold chain over a black t-shirt, his tattooed hands working gently as he pulls their daughter’s hair into a set of tiny braids. The gold chain brings out the golden tones in his eyes, and the whole effect is very attractive to Evan, though the buzzcut takes him by surprise.

“So you decided to go from too much hair to no hair?” he says, stretching and yawning.

“You guys do this every time I shave my head,” Amir says. “It’s not even that short, I used a four guard. Plus my hair grows fast as fuck anyway.”

“Nah, I like it, I was just saying.”

Amir touches his head self-consciously. “I scared April,” he says, sounding guilty. “She didn’t recognize me when I went in to get her from her crib, she started bawling.”

“What time did you get up? I didn’t hear you.”

Amir shrugs. “Like six. I couldn’t go back to sleep.”

April turns to Evan and waves at him. Evan waves back, and April signs _sticks_ at him.

“You want sticks? Okay,” he says, while signing something like ‘sticks yes’ in his pidgin ASL.

“What’s sticks?” Amir murmurs, still absorbed in braiding her hair.

“French toast sticks. She only gets them for breakfast on Fridays, ‘cos they have, like, no nutritional value.”

“Fuck, is it Friday already?”

“Sure is,” Evan says. “I think we should go on a hike today.”

Amir looks up as he’s wrapping a tiny hair tie around the end of the second of April’s braids. “With the kid?”

“Nah, just the two of us. She can chill here with your dad, he likes babysitting her. I just wanna stop in at work and see if there’s anything I can take care of today so I don’t get, like, deluged on Monday, then go get some fresh air.”

Amir nods. “Okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, I’m down. Just take it easy on me, please, ‘cos I’m not in great shape right now.”

Evan laughs. “We can take it slow, don’t worry.”

Amir smiles at him. Even when he’s run-down like he is now, with his eyes puffy from a night of crying and rimmed by heavy dark circles, his smile is like the sun breaking through the clouds. Evan wishes he could see it more often.

Sometimes he feels like he’s spent his entire life just trying to get Amir to smile. Amir was striking and sullen from the first day they met, the kind of kid you immediately notice and then feel nervous around until you’re sure he likes you.

At seven, Evan was self-absorbed enough to take Amir’s cool silence personally, until Amir started to warm up to him and seek him out independent of Jason and Tyler. On days when the two of them didn’t feel like playing tag or whatever was going on that day, they used to go to the far end of the playground and sit in the shade of a tree together, pulling up clovers and talking.

Amir would tell Evan about how he wished his parents would get back together, and how annoying it was to have this strange Liam guy living in his house, kissing his dad and calling him ‘little lad’, and Evan would tell Amir about how his mom had been silent and weird ever since her parents died, how she would go to bed at 3 in the afternoon.

They were too young to comfort each other through this in any meaningful way, but it helped just to talk about it. The more they talked, the better Evan became at getting a smile out of Amir, until they were close enough that all it took was Evan making eye contact with him during class to make Amir dissolve in giggles.

*

They’re about to leave when they find out that Jason talked to TMZ reporters that morning, when he landed at PHX before heading off to a luxury rehab center in Sedona.

Amir’s sitting on the thick carpet in the parlor, playing with April and Goose, when he notices Evan’s face drop as he looks at his phone.

“What?” Amir says, and Mia and Sunday, who are sitting on the other wing of the sectional staring at their own phones, both look up.

“Uh, nothing,” Evan says. “Just Jason.”

“Jason what? Is he dead?”

“No, he talked to reporters.”

“About me?” Amir says.

“Yeah, it came up in my Google alert for you, so I’m guessing so.”

Mia, Sunday and Amir all speed to Evan’s side, looking over his shoulders at his phone. Evan lets out a sigh.

April, left behind on the floor, looks up at them with her doe eyes. Amir smiles at her to reassure her, then lightly hits Evan on the shoulder. “Play it,” he says.

Evan taps the play button on the video, the thumbnail for which shows a photo of an exhausted-looking Jason in an airport with a microphone being shoved in his face. The video starts with the familiar TMZ intro, both the sound and sight of which now make Amir nauseous due to classical conditioning.

The reporter, whoever he is, is jogging alongside Jason as Jason walks toward the luggage carousel, buffered by two giant security guards who keep trying to push the TMZ guy back.

Undeterred, the TMZ guy says, “Jason, Jason, what’s the deal with Amir? Do you know? Are you heading to rehab, is that where you’re going right now?”

“Yeah,” Jason says, glancing at him.

“Okay, word, and what about Amir? Is he going to rehab too?”

“I don’t know, man.”

“‘Cos he left Jya’s tour, and no one’s heard from him, have you heard from him?”

“I haven’t heard from him,” Jason says, his tone icy.

“Step back, step back,” the security guy on the right says. He’s too tall for his face to even be in frame, but his big arm swings out and pushes the camera.

“What kind of drugs were you guys doing?” the TMZ guy continues, pointing the camera back into Jason’s face. “We have a source in Barcelona who told us he sold you guys pills while you were there, Oxys and Xanax, plus coke — can you confirm that?”

“No,” Jason says, though it’s true, they did pick up all that shit in Barcelona, and Amir knows him well enough to know that the way his eyes are widening is a dead giveaway that he’s both lying and nervous about it. “Leave me alone, dude.”

“Okay, okay, but how is Amir? I know you said you haven’t heard from him, but how was he doing before that? Pretty bad, right?”

“Yeah, really bad, obviously.”

“Okay, and we now know he was placed on a psychiatric hold last year, do you know what that was about?”

Amir holds his breath, biting down on his lip. Jason doesn’t know about The Incident, but he knows Amir had postpartum psychosis. Amir blabbed this to him late one night when they were both zooted.

“I dunno,” Jason says, shaking his head. “I dunno. I mean, you know he’s bipolar...”

Amir goes very still as his whole body flushes with prickly heat.

“No, they don’t, you fucking idiot,” Evan groans. “Oh, my God.”

“I can’t believe he just said that,” Sunday says.

“He has rocks for brains,” Evan says.

Goose, who’s very sensitive to anger, slinks out of the room with his head low.

Mia reaches behind Evan and strokes Amir’s arm. Amir looks away from the phone, dizzy with anger. He can hear the TMZ reporter saying, “Wait, seriously? Is that for real? He’s bipolar? You’re the first person who’s said that, no one else has said that.”

“Mild,” Jason backpedals. “Mild bipolar. He’s fine. It just —”

“That’s enough,” a security guard interrupts. “Step back, sir, get out of the way.”

The video cuts off. There’s another TMZ bump, and then silence. Amir puts his head in his hands.

“Maybe this is actually a good thing,” Mia says. “Maybe people will keep getting more sympathetic to you.”

“I don’t care! I didn’t want people to _know_ that, Jesus fucking Christ!”

“It’s not a huge deal, Meer, honestly. People know Dad is bipolar, now.”

“That’s different!”

People know Zayn is bipolar because Zayn announced it himself in the chapter he released from his still-unpublished memoir, the release date of which gets bumped back every time Amir has another crisis. The teaser chapter was only 2,000 words, all ghostwritten, but Zayn still managed to pack in confessions about dozens of controversies, including the fact that he and Harry had first dated as teens, which caused his name to trend on Twitter for two days straight.

But that was all his decision. He didn’t have one of his dipshit friends run his mouth off to TMZ at a Phoenix airport. _Phoenix_ , of all places. Amir feels low-rent in every way possible.

Evan starts rubbing his back. “Look, there’s nothing we can do, alright? There’s gonna be this kind of fallout for a while, until everyone moves on to a new story. We can’t shut up every single person you partied with or bought drugs from.”

“NDAs,” Sunday suggests.

“NDAs don’t cover illegal activities,” Mia says. “You can’t use an NDA to cover up crimes.”

“I’m not covering up crimes,” Amir says hotly.

“I’m just saying, you can’t serve your drug dealers with NDAs.” He hears Mia move off the couch, and then a moment later, she’s pushing on his shoulder. “Sit up.”

Amir lifts his head and sees April in her arms. He spreads his own arms, and April is dumped rather unceremoniously into them. Luckily, she doesn’t seem to mind.

“Worry about your toddler,” Mia says to him. “Evan’s right, we can’t control Jason.”

Amir hugs April to himself, inhaling her sweet smell of Dreft and baby shampoo. “What are people saying about me on Twitter?”

Evan types a little bit, then scrolls through his phone in silence. “Uh, honestly, there’s not a whole lot about it yet, ‘cos they only just posted the video,” he says. “There’s like, a tag with people supporting you, but that’s days old. Also, somebody shared the video of you peeing in the street and said she wants you to piss in her mouth, so there’s that...”

Amir winces in disgust at this, and Sunday gags.

“Daddy,” April chirps in his ear, reaching up to tug on his septum piercing.

“Ow,” Amir says, pulling her hand away. “Please don’t.”

She giggles at him.

“Why does your daughter find it funny to hurt me?” Amir says to Evan, who laughs.

“Hey, look at it this way,” he says, rubbing his tanned hands together. “You know how much it must piss Jason off that he’s finally getting attention like this, and it’s all about you? TMZ is stalking him, and all they want to know about is you? That must be driving him up a wall.”

“That does make me feel a little better,” Amir admits, while wrestling April’s hand away from his nose.

April pouts at him and starts to cry.

“No, no,” Amir says, sighing. “Here…” He brings her hand to the hoop in the helix of his right ear. “Play with this, it doesn’t hurt as much.”

April sniffles and yanks much harder on his ear than he was expecting her to, making him exclaim “Fuck!” by accident.

April starts bawling again, and Evan relieves Amir of her, hoisting her up into the air and talking to her in baby voice until she calms down. Amir leans back against the couch, nursing his ear.

“Maybe if you didn’t have so many piercings, she wouldn’t be able to rip them out of your face,” Mia suggests.

“Helpful, thank you,” Amir says, adjusting his septum ring.

“It’s okay, we’ll take her off your hands today,” Sunday says. “Just today, though, and then we’re both fleeing the country this weekend, so good luck after that.”

“Yeah, when are you guys coming home next?” Amir says, glancing over at them. Evan gets out of his way, rising up off the couch so he can bounce April and sing a nonsense song to her. “I can’t believe I finally come home and you’re both immediately leaving.”

“Well, don’t disappear for six months and then come back out of nowhere,” Mia says, extending her hand in a _duh_ gesture.

“Also, I’ve _been_ gone,” Sunday says. “I only came home ‘cos Louis had pneumonia, and I should have left days ago, I only stayed because of you. I dunno when I’ll be back next, but you’re all welcome to come visit me in England, I’ll be there for like a month at least.”

“Fine,” Amir agrees.

“That’s a good idea, anyway,” Mia says. “We can take April for a big family visit, she hasn’t been up since last Christmas.”

“Seriously?” Amir says.

“Well, we thought it would be weird to bring her without you,” Mia says. “And we didn’t think you’d be on the outs with us for as long as you were.”

“Alright, we should definitely go, then,” Amir says. “Jesus. I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah,” Evan says in a sing-songy voice. “We can see the Tomlinsons, and the Maliks, and not the Stewarts, ever! Not ever!”

Mia glances over at him. “How crazy does it drive your family that you didn’t give her your name?” she says.

“Oh, they hate it so much,” Evan replies, holding April by the torso and swinging her upside down, making her giggle hysterically. “My uncle Wade said at Thanksgiving last year, my dad called me a cuck in front of the whole family.”

“So is your dad just like... losing his mind, a little bit?” Sunday says.

“Yep,” Evan confirms. “Completely. Ever since the hostile takeover attempt. Personally, I think he’s been on something, but obviously, I’m out of the loop.”

“On something?” Amir says.

Evan nods. “Uppers, maybe. I’ve just heard he’s been really, uh…” He avoids eye contact with Amir. “Just really angry and paranoid, and impulsive. Doesn’t seem to have a good verbal filter anymore.”

Amir sits with that for a moment, wondering if that’s how Evan sees him. Has he been paranoid? Maybe, but the entire world wants to know his private business. Who wouldn’t be paranoid?

Evan continues playing with April, seemingly unaffected by the mention of his family.

“You just have the best genetics,” Amir coos to April, who grins at him despite being upside down. “You hit the genetic lottery, baby. A bunch of rich, insane addicts.”

“Hey, hey,” Evan says, laughing.

“Yeah, maybe she’ll take after me,” Mia says, flexing. “I’m very functional.”

Amir shoots her a dubious look, which she laughs in response to.

“Maybe she’ll take after me,” Sunday says.

“Sunday, we’re not related.”

“Me and Evan are related, though,” she says.

“No, you’re not, you just have a cousin in common,” Amir says.

“Is that not being related?” Evan says.

“Evan, that’s like thinking you and _me_ are related just because we’re both related to April,” Amir says, exasperated. “Did you geniuses really think you were related?”

Evan and Sunday look at each other in a defeated way.

“Kinda,” Evan admits. “I didn’t think about it too hard.”

“Me neither,” Sunday says.

“Holy shit,” Amir says.

“I have an auntly influence on April, though, even if it’s not biological,” Sunday says.

“Future Olympian baby,” Evan cheers, bringing April to his shoulder, on which she contentedly lays her head. Evan has clearly gotten good at soothing April in Amir’s absence; noticing this makes his heart hurt.

“Stop talking about the Olympics,” Sunday says, sounding anxious and leaning forward to knock on the wood of the coffee table. “It’s like saying Macbeth in a theater, it’s bad luck.”

“You need to get a grip,” Mia tells her, not unkindly.

Amir remembers something, then, and reaches down for his wrist, slipping off a black nylon bracelet he’s wearing that has a tiny jeweled hamsa in the center. “Here,” he says, handing it to her. “Take this. It keeps the evil eye away.”

“Aw, Amir,” Sunday says. “Won’t you need it?”

“I don’t think it’s worked for me very much,” Amir admits. “But I think I was getting a lot of evil eye directed at me, probably.”

Sunday slides the bracelet onto her wrist. “This does make me feel a little better,” she says.

“Alright, good,” Amir says. “Keep it.”

They don’t end up getting out of the house for another forty-five minutes after that, because April has a Pull-Ups blowout, which they try unsuccessfully to pawn off on Liam.

“No, no no,” Liam shouts as he hurries away into the kitchen. “That’s your kid! You made that kid, you clean her! I cleaned all the kids I made, I’m retired now!”

Evan ends up taking care of it. For once, Amir isn’t annoyed at having someone take April’s care out of his hands, because Evan makes sure to tell him, “I’m just doing you a favor here ‘cos you let me sleep in this morning, and I know you’re out of practice with diapers.”

“Fair play,” Amir says, and hands him the baby powder.

They turn a clean and happy April over to Louis so she can hang out with him while he watches more terrible TV from his bed.

“Lou-ee,” April calls in excitement as soon as she sees him.

“April!” Louis calls back to her, holding his arms out as Evan carries her over. “C’mere. Give me that baby. Hello baby, good morning.”

She wriggles free from Evan’s grasp and collapses into his arms, giggling. Louis beams down at her.

After the events of the morning, Amir and Evan are worn out and quiet on the drive out to the Sierra Nevada. As they roll into the old mining town of Placerville, Amir leans out the window to look at the mountains jutting into the sky.

“Do you make this drive every day?” he says.

“Yeah,” Evan replies.

“It’s pretty.”

“It is.”

“What do you normally do, just listen to the radio?”

“I kind of avoid the radio,” Evan says, scrubbing his hand over his face and then rubbing his right eye.

“Why?” Amir says, then realizes. “Oh. ‘Cos I’m on the radio?”

“Yeah.”

“A lot?” he says, in curiosity. “I wasn’t sure how much airplay I was getting in America.”

Evan shoots a look over at him. “Enough for me to avoid turning it on? I dunno, I didn’t keep track.”

“Sorry. Dickhead question.”

They’re quiet for a while.

“I usually listen to podcasts,” Evan says. “Like parenting podcasts, environmentalist podcasts… shit like that.”

Amir studies him. “Parenting podcasts?”

“Yeah, just like, parents talking about parenting, giving advice. There’s this one couple I like, they’re funny, they don’t sugarcoat anything.”

“What do you get out of those?”

“I dunno, man, it just made me feel less alone while you were gone, that’s all. Or better about being alone, I guess.”

Amir stares out the window. The trees are growing taller as they get closer to the mountains, and the air pouring into the car smells more crisp and fresh. He tries to focus on that, instead of the return of the gnawing guilt that’s making him crave any drug that can numb it.

“I didn’t mean to make you feel alone,” he says.

“I know you didn’t. I’m just saying.”

“Yeah, and you don’t seem to care that it hurts my feelings when you say that shit.”

“Dude…” Evan exhales a laugh that turns into a sigh. “Do you think it doesn’t hurt my feelings when you’re like, talking about how you were miserable all of last year, and you felt like no one gave a shit about you and you had nothing to live for? Do you not see the connection there?”

“No,” Amir says stubbornly. “‘Cos that wasn’t about you.”

“It was, though! I’m your husband!”

“Then it goes both ways.”

“I didn’t abandon you for six months,” Evan snaps.

“Emotionally, you abandoned me for a year. You admitted to that!”

“But I was still _there._ I was there to kiss our daughter goodnight. I was there to hug you and bring you coffee in the morning, and talk to you, and support you financially, and bring you food and water when you were too depressed to get out of bed!”

“I don’t need your coffee, and I don’t need your money!” Amir screams at him. “I needed _you_! I needed my best friend!”

“I was there, Amir! You were the one who was gone, mentally!”

“Yeah, I was drowning, and you were just letting me drown!”

“What the fuck was I supposed to do?” Evan splutters, putting the car into autopilot and turning to him. “I mean, what do you think I am? I’m just a guy!”

Amir stares out the window with a lump in his throat like concrete, refusing to meet Evan’s eyes.

“Come on,” Evan says.

“I want you to be more than ‘just a guy’ for me,” Amir cries. “I’m it, right? I’m the dream? You fell in love with me, you wanted me, you got me, you fought for me? You always tell me I saved you, so why couldn’t you save me when I needed it?”

“God damnit, Amir…” Evan hits the steering wheel in frustration, honking the horn by accident and surprising Amir, who turns to him.

Evan looks guilty. “Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to — I didn’t mean that like that.”

“I know.”

About a year ago, an ex-girlfriend of Evan’s brother, Henry, had made a post on social media accusing Henry of abusing her. Evan, estranged from his family, couldn’t find out anything more about it, but he told Amir that he believed her, that he thinks Henry is capable of that. They haven’t discussed it since, and it feels obliquely brought up in this moment. But Amir knows Evan would never in a million years lay a finger on him.

“This is why I worry about us,” Evan says. “I don’t want to be toxic like this. I don’t like how frustrated I get when we talk about this shit, I don’t like the person I become. I’m always afraid I’m gonna say some shit I don’t mean, and that just isn’t me, that’s not who I am.”

“See, I don’t even worry about you hurting me,” Amir says. “There’s nothing you could say to me that’s worse than what I’ve said to myself, or worse than what everyone else is saying about me, honestly. The only thing I’m really afraid of is you giving up on me.”

Evan spreads his arms helplessly. “I haven’t yet, so...”

“I push things ‘til they break,” Amir admits.

“Yeah, I know that, but you don’t need to force me to prove that I love you unconditionally, okay? You already know I do. If you can’t get your brain to accept that, then you need to fix your brain. There’s nothing more I can do.” Evan’s quiet for a moment. “I’d move mountains for you, you know that, but it wouldn’t help. You think everyone else has all the power over how you feel, but it’s not true.”

Amir keeps looking out the window, watching trees roll by.

*

Evan stops off in the park rangers office before their hike to check in, and Amir follows behind him, feeling awkward. There’s only one other person in the office — a middle-aged woman sitting behind a central desk, idly typing. She looks up when the bell on the door chimes.

“Hey, Evan,” she says.

“Hi, Zoe,” he says. “This is my husband, Amir. Amir, this is Zoe, she’s the senior ranger.”

Zoe waves at Amir, who waves back.

“I’m just gonna go grab some boots from the back,” Evan says to Zoe. “Do I have anything I can take home over the weekend, like any paperwork or anything?”

“Just the one thing,” Zoe says. “The DA’s office called and said your incident report on the poachers you caught last month is too thin, they need more info for when they take them to court.”

“Ah, shit, alright…”

Amir looks at Evan in surprise. “You catch _poachers_ now?”

Evan glances at him. “Yeah?”

“It’s just what we call people hunting out of season,” Zoe says.

“Still, though. You stop criminals?”

Evan laughs. “Yeah, I guess. Alright, hang tight, I’ll be one second.”

He heads through a door to a back room, leaving Amir and Zoe alone. Amir stands there awkwardly while Zoe continues to type.

“So,” she says, without taking her eyes off her keyboard. “You’re the mysterious Amir, huh?”

“Yep.”

“Never seen him in action as a ranger, before?”

“Nah,” Amir says. “When we lived on the Bay, he did like, educational stuff for kids, things like that. Save The Bay type shit.”

Evan never even officially told him that he had taken this job. A few weeks after Amir left for tour, Louis had texted him, _FYI, Evan and April have moved in with me and Liam, and he’s got an interview for a job out by Lake Tahoe._

Amir never responded, of course, but he did read it. He could tell how furious his dad was at him from the way that 1) he said Liam, not Payno 2) he said Lake Tahoe, not Tahoe, and 3) he didn’t end the text with an x.

He doesn’t even know what happened to their house in Vallejo after that. Louis is the one who bought it, so he’s probably renting it out, or maybe keeping it empty. Amir doesn’t ever want to go back there, because he associates it with being entombed in depression, but it is kind of sad to think of their former home standing all bare and alone.

“Gotcha,” Zoe says. “He’s good at it. He doesn’t talk much, though. Kind of a strictly business type of guy, so we never heard much about you.”

Amir nods, not knowing what else to say to that.

“You doing okay?” she says.

He points to himself. “Am _I_?”

“Yeah, you. Listen… when I was in my twenties, I was heavy into opioids, which turned into being heavy into heroin. It took me five years to kick it.” She looks at him like she expects a reaction, but Amir doesn’t really have one. “Anyway, I’m just saying, I know it’s hard.”

“Oka-ay,” Amir says, somewhat floored by this. “What, has Evan talked to you about me?”

Zoe cracks up. “ _Evan_? Oh, honey, no, Evan’s only good for the barest details about anything. No, I mean… no offense, but they were literally just talking about you on the morning news like two hours ago.” She points to the TV in the corner of the room. “It’s not a secret. I’m sure you’d prefer a little more privacy than that, but…”

“Yeah, I would,” Amir says, annoyed. He already feels like shit from arguing with Evan in the car, plus he has his standard malaise, ice pick headache, and irritability from the lack of stimulants in his system. Even the milligram of Xanax he took that morning isn’t helping.

“Hey, it could always be worse,” Zoe says. “Everyone in my life found out from me nodding out in my car in the parking lot at the public library. A librarian had to run out and give me Narcan. Be grateful for any scrap of dignity you get to hold onto.”

“Thanks,” Amir says sarcastically.

The door swings back open, and Evan comes out, clearing his throat. He’s changed into hiking boots, and he holds another pair out to Amir as he comes over to him.

Amir slips out of his Vans and takes the boots.

“Wait,” Evan says, handing him a pair of thick socks. “These too, or you’ll get blisters.” He picks up Amir’s shoes and carries them over to a desk along the left side of the office, setting them down on top of it. He sets a stack of papers down beside them.

Amir balances on one foot to pull the boots on, watching Evan. That’s his desk, he realizes. It’s mostly bare, like he doesn’t spend a lot of time at it, but there’s a framed photo of April by his computer monitor.

Evan comes back over to him, adjusting his watch strap. Amir wiggles his right foot the rest of the way into the boot and stomps it once before kneeling to do the laces.

“Ready to hike?” Evan says.

“Yep,” Amir replies.

He follows Evan outside, the door chiming shut behind them.

“Sorry about Zoe,” Evan says to him as they start down the path that leads to the east, passing a massive map and signpost. “I heard you guys talking… she can be a little much, sometimes, but she means well.”

“It’s just crazy how people think they can talk about me to my face like that,” Amir says, kicking a rock off of the path and into the woods.

“I know. Trust me, I don’t get it either.”

“Like I did anything so bad, anyway,” Amir says. “I wasn’t drunk driving down the sidewalk, mowing people down.”

Evan shrugs. “You got a lot of clout really fast. People were looking for any reason to tear you back down, and you gave them a reason.”

“Having a drug problem is a reason?”

“No, I’m not saying they’re _right_ , just… you’re really good at pissing people off,” Evan says, laughing. “And you didn’t want to play the game of like, the interviews and stuff —”

“— because everyone was going to ask me about you, and April, and my parents, and I didn’t want to talk about you guys.”

“Right, but you not talking about us at all became really sus. And then the rumors started going around that we were estranged, and you hadn’t been saying anything up ‘til that point, and, y’know. Whenever there’s an absence of information, people assume a negative. I went through the same thing when I cut my family off, you remember.”

“I do,” Amir says.

“So, there you go.”

They fall quiet as they start to hike. Amir gets out of breath quickly, which he tries to hide from Evan out of embarrassment. Evan seems to realize this, though, and slows his pace down.

Evan doesn’t say much at first, but as they walk, he starts describing the forest around them to Amir, pointing out trees, plants and animals. As miserable and distracted as he is, Amir appreciates what Evan is trying to do, appreciates the loving act of sharing.

They reach a creek that they have to cross, and Evan stops and kneels beside the water, beckoning Amir to join him. Amir does, squatting amongst the rocks. This creek wends its way through the forest, moving between rocky outcroppings that are covered in thick tree growth.

“Check it out,” Evan says, reaching into the water where it’s silty and still. He pulls his hand out and shows his palm to Amir — there’s a frog in it.

“Ohh,” Amir exclaims. He takes the frog, who wiggles in his grasp but doesn’t try harder than that to escape. “Hi, little man. Hi teeny weeny.”

“That’s a California red-legged frog,” Evan says. “They’re endangered, but they’re coming back.”

Amir holds the frog up to his face, studying it. “His legs aren’t red.”

Evan laughs. “Right, yeah, I dunno why that’s their name. But there’s a pond right by here that they breed in, so there’s always frogs around here, and you like frogs...”

“I do like frogs.”

“April does, too.”

“Does she?” Amir says, delighted. “That’s new.”

Evan nods.

Amir lets the frog go; it hops back into the creek. He watches the water ripple where it jumped in, feeling overwhelmed for no particular reason.

“Evan?” he says.

“Yeah?”

“I feel like shit,” Amir admits. “I know we’re only like, two miles into this hike, but my whole body hurts, and my head hurts, and I want to do coke so bad. I’ve been wanting to do coke so bad ever since I stopped. I think about it all the time.”

Evan is quiet. Amir looks over at him, and he’s nodding.

“That’s okay,” he says.

“Is it?” Amir says. “‘Cos I feel like such a worthless piece of shit about it.”

“You’re not,” Evan says firmly.

“I feel like a burden,” Amir says, grief-stricken. “Sometimes I think it would be better if I just died before April’s old enough to remember me.”

“Well, it wouldn’t be. C’mere.”

Amir crawls over to Evan, mud soaking through the knees of his jeans, and collapses against him. Evan puts an arm around him.

“Look around,” Evan says. “Look at where we are, look how beautiful it is.”

Amir looks around at the riots of green bursting above sheets of white rock, and at the snowy peaks piercing the cloudless sky.

“Now take a deep breath.”

Amir does his best. The mountain air feels cool in his lungs, like menthol.

“Take another.”

Amir does, shutting his eyes, listening to the flowing water and the shimmering sound of insects in the forest. He feels Evan’s arm around him, warm and steady.

“You’re gonna be okay,” Evan says, stroking his hair. “And I love you.”

The lump returns to Amir’s throat. “I love you too.”

“Take another deep breath.”

“Okay.”

Evan rubs his shoulder. “I want our daughter to know you,” he says. “I want you to raise her, I want that more than anything. I don’t want to do it alone. And I can’t imagine her not getting to know you.”

“I don’t want her to not know me,” Amir says in a tiny voice. “I just don’t want to keep fucking everything up.”

“Look at it this way, would you have rather had Zayn alive and fucking some things up, or have him have died when you were a baby?”

“Alive, of course, Jesus.”

“Well, there you go.”

“I’m a bigger fuck-up, though.”

“Guess you have to be extra alive to make up for it, then,” Evan says nonchalantly.

Amir starts laughing. “That barely makes sense.”

“ _You_ barely make sense.”

Amir flicks him in the ear. “Fuck off...”

Evan responds by giving him a light slap to the back of his neck, and they start to play fight, wrestling in the mud, laughing until it’s hard for them to breathe.

SACRAMENTO, JULY 19, 2042

Sunday wakes up early, as she usually does, and packs quickly. Years of life on the road have made this very easy. She can fit everything she needs for a flight into a backpack or duffel, now — she hates checking big luggage. This means she often has to break out the ironing board in her hotel rooms so she can steam out the wrinkles in one of her show jackets or stock ties, but she kind of enjoys doing that. It’s meditative.

She gets coffee and makes herself two eggs before anyone else is even downstairs, although a few of them are up, she can tell by the sound of footsteps above her head. She takes the rest of her coffee back to her room and sips it while doing some morning yoga, then at nine sharp, she goes to Liam and Louis’ room and knocks on their door.

“Whozzat,” Liam calls.

“Me,” Sunday calls back.

“Oh, come in, love.”

Sunday opens the door and sees, to her amusement, that her dad is on his own yoga mat on the floor, stretching his hamstrings. Louis is in bed, surrounded by paperwork.

“Sunday!” Liam says cheerfully. “Alright?”

“I’m good,” she says.

“How’d you sleep?”

“Good.”

“Good. You heading out, then? You’ve got your heading out face on.”

“I am,” Sunday admits.

Liam and Louis are clearly sad to see her go, but they mask it well.

“Well, give us a hug,” Louis says, spreading his arms.

Sunday goes over to him and embraces him, squeezing him tight. “You seem a lot better,” she says.

Louis squeezes her back. “I reckon I am. I’ve got the doctor again on Monday, I’ll ask him if it’s alright for me to make the flight to England in a few weeks.”

“Yeah, please come out. I’d really like that.”

She pulls back, and Louis strokes her hair. “Good luck, sweetheart,” he says, his eyes twinkling.

Sunday laughs. “I’m not doing any actual competitions for at least a month.”

“Well, have a good flight, then.”

Sunday goes over to Liam, who wraps her up in a hug and kisses her head. “We’re very proud of you, y’know,” he says.

“I know. Thank you.”

“Alright, get out of my sight before I start crying,” Liam says, clapping her on the back. “I hate saying goodbye to you.”

“I’ll see you soon!”

“Well, maybe. Depends if Lou gets cleared to travel, I don’t want to go without him.”

“I am as healthy as a horse,” Louis says.

“Not your Evil Horse, I hope,” Sunday says. “I went to check on him yesterday, and he actually has rain rot right now.”

“I am as healthy as a different horse,” Louis amends.

“Don’t call him Evil Horse,” Liam chides. “It’s not his fault he doesn’t like people. I didn’t know that, what do we do about rain rot?”

“I’m not surprised you didn’t know, since I’m the only person he lets get near him,” Sunday says, amused. “I washed him and put some ointment on him before I turned him back out, he should be fine. Also, it’s _your_ fault he doesn’t have an actual name, Dad.”

“I think Horse is fine,” Liam says. “It’s accurate, anyway. Just don’t add any rude adjectives to it.”

Louis snorts. “‘Horse,’ he names his horse.”

He and Sunday exchange a knowing look, which makes Liam exclaim, “Quit making fun of me!”

*

Mia never likes saying goodbye to Sunday, although she’s comforted by the fact that she’s leaving the following day, and they’ll be reunited soon anyway. It’s just that it always feels like Sunday is on her way out the door, slipping out of their fingers. She doesn’t seem to belong to the world of rooms and people — you can tell that no matter where she is, she wishes she were on the back of a horse instead, galloping toward the horizon.

She and Amir walk Sunday to the end of the driveway, Mia carrying her duffel bag for her. Amir offered to, but they both told him no.

“No offense, but you look like you’re dying of consumption,” Sunday says. “And I don’t want you dropping my stuff, there’s breakables in there.”

Amir makes a noise of offense.

“He looks like a swarthy Dickensian orphan,” Mia says.

Sunday cracks up while Amir gives them both the finger. As they start down the driveway, though, Sunday and Amir walk out ahead of Mia, and Sunday wraps her arm around his shoulders. She’s almost an inch taller than he is, though she never acknowledges this, because she knows how much he hates it.

“Nice,” Mia calls after them as she trudges down the pavement behind them, the duffel swinging from her shoulder. “Make me carry your shit and then exclude me.”

“Don’t be a baby,” Sunday calls over her shoulder. “Let me have a moment with my brother.”

Mia is pleased enough by her use of ‘my brother’ to let it go. She continues walking behind them, listening to them talk about random things — what it’s like in Europe right now, the crazy things Sunday has seen on the eventing circuit, and the overlaps between those and the crazy things Amir has seen while on tour. For once, Mia isn’t in a very chatty mood, and she’s happy to just listen.

Mia hands the duffel over to Sunday halfway through their walk, and she takes it with no complaints. “Thanks,” she says. “You guys could have driven me down, you know.”

“Nah, we wanted to walk you,” Mia says, and Amir nods.

When they finally make it to the gate, the self-driving Uber that Sunday called is there, idling in the road with its hazards on. On its windshield in glowing purple lettering reads a hologram that says, DEPARTING IN 5:23. The seconds continue to tick down as they watch.

“Alright,” Sunday says, opening the back seat door and heaving her bag inside. “I’ll text the group chat when I land.” She turns and pulls Amir into a hug; they sway back and forth together, rocking from foot to foot.

“Have a good flight,” Amir tells her when they part.

She claps him on the shoulder. “Don’t take your daughter for granted, okay?” she says, her dark eyes searching his face, her mouth set in a serious line.

“I won’t,” Amir says.

“Good.”

Sunday comes over to Mia, then. They hug each other hard, clapping each other hard on the shoulders as they do, as if to slap the sadness out of each other.

“Have fun in Germany,” Sunday says, her voice stern. “Enjoy yourself, and relax. Okay?”

Mia laughs. “Okay.”

Sunday squeezes her tight, and Mia squeezes her back. She’s the one to let go first, clearing her throat as she does.

“Get out of here,” she teases Sunday. “I’ll see you in England, alright?”

“Alright,” Sunday says, her dark eyes twinkly. “See you there.”

She waves to them both as she gets into the Uber. They hear a click as the doors lock, and then the car rolls off down the road, east toward Sacramento.

Mia looks over at Amir and lets out a sigh. “So.”

“So,” he says, sliding his hands into his pockets and kicking a pebble away from the road, toward the naturally formed gullies that run alongside it, carved out by the rain.

“Wanna go get coffee?” she says.

Amir glances up at her and smiles his sweet smile. “Yeah.”

SACRAMENTO, JULY 21, 2042

The paparazzi who are assigned to stalk Amir have established such a tight lid on Sacramento that a pap camped out by Amir’s rehab, Vineyard Hills Recovery and Detox, spots Louis’ bodyguard doing a sweep of the grounds on Sunday, and relays this information to all of his pap friends. The Vineyard Hills staff call Amir late Sunday night to let him know that there are now a dozen paps camped out along the sidewalk outside the rehab center, cameras at the ready, and they presumably will still be there when he arrives Monday morning.

“We notified the police, but they can’t disperse them, since they’re on public property,” the front desk lady tells him. “I’m sorry.”

“Trust me, I know,” Amir tells her resignedly. It’s not like he had expected any different. “Thanks anyway.”

He wakes at 6 a.m. Monday morning, feeling shaky and nauseous, and stares at the ceiling for an hour or so until Evan starts to stir.

“Game day,” Amir says to him.

Evan yawns and stretches. “It’s gonna be fine.”

“Will it?”

Evan strokes his buzzcut, running his hand against the grain. “I’m proud of you for going,” he says.

Amir rolls over and snuggles into Evan’s bare chest. Evan wraps his arms around him, holding him.

“I’ll walk you all the way in,” Evan murmurs. “I’ll protect you.”

Amir presses his face into Evan’s neck, nuzzling him, kissing his collarbone. “Can you stay with me all day?”

“No, baby, I can’t. I would if I could.”

Amir has always hated being told no, but lately he really, _really_ hates it. “I feel like I need to do drugs just to get through my first day of rehab,” he says.

“Yeah, and that’s why you’re going to rehab. Sorry, uh, ‘physical therapy.’”

Amir rubs his morning wood against Evan’s, kissing him, biting at his bottom lip.

“Stop,” Evan says with difficulty, pulling away from him. “You’re not going to trick me into forgetting where we have to go.”

“What if I get on top and ride you?” he purrs.

“No!”

Offended, Amir tumbles sideways out of the bed and lands on his feet, shooting a glare at Evan. Evan spreads his hands.

“I’d love to fuck you, Amir,” he says. “It’s just we literally don’t have time, and I know you’re just being avoidant.”

Amir blows a raspberry at him as he storms off into the bathroom to get ready.

Louis and Liam are up early, too, since Louis’ appointment with the doctor is at eight. April is still sound asleep, so they drop the baby monitor off with Max and nudge him awake (he groans incoherently in response) then head down to the foyer, where Louis is waiting for Liam to lace up his sneakers.

Louis beckons Amir to him and pulls him close, kissing him on the head. “Eli is gonna meet you two in the parking lot, alright? He’s already there, he’s keeping an eye out for the Range Rover. He’ll walk you both in, then walk Evan back to the car. And remember they can’t come past the sidewalk, anyway.”

“We have to walk by them to get in, though,” Amir murmurs. “It’s fine. I’ll be fine.”

“I know you will.” Louis strokes Amir’s hair against the grain the same way Evan had. “Buzzcut boy... I love you very much.”

“I know. I love you too.”

“Text me when you’re in, alright?”

“I will. Text me what the doctor says.”

“Alright.”

Amir hangs onto his dad, not wanting to let go. Evan has to tug him away.

“We have to get going,” he says apologetically. “We’re gonna hit traffic.”

Liam stands, having finally laced up his shoes. “Good luck, boys,” he says.

“Is Mia gonna be here when I get back?” Amir says anxiously. “I want to say goodbye to her.”

“Yeah, her flight’s not ‘til the evening,” Louis says. “She wants to sleep through it.”

“Okay, good.”

“What time d’you think they’ll spring you?” Liam says.

“Three, I think, on my first day,” Amir says. “There’s a lot of onboarding shit. It’s like school.”

Louis laughs. “They have to read you the syllabus.”

Amir laughs weakly back. “I think it’s more like I have to piss in a cup and tell them exactly how crazy I am.”

“Well, either way,” Louis says. “We’ll be here when you get back, love. Go on.”

*

It’s a rainy morning with crowded, busy highways. The closer they get to the city, the more Amir is suffused with dread, until he’s on the verge of a panic attack in the passenger seat.

Evan barely notices; he can’t figure out how to defog the windshield, and this occupies him for the latter half of the drive, even though Amir keeps telling him not to worry about it, since the car is driving itself.

“Yeah, but what if I have to take over?” Evan mutters, hitting more buttons on the console. “I think I’m just making it worse.”

Amir bends over his lap, the seatbelt cutting into his chest. “What if I didn’t go to rehab, and we just took April, and like, moved to the desert?” he says. “I think if I got enough vitamin D and didn’t have to look at the Internet or be around anyone, I’d be fine, all my bad brain shit would go away. I wouldn’t be able to buy drugs, ‘cos we’d be in the middle of nowhere.”

“Amir, that’s insane, you hate the desert.”

“No, I don’t! It’s warm and sunny, and I hate being cold, it’s perfect.”

“But you hate being away from civilization.”

“Civilization is overrated,” Amir says, rolling down the window and sticking his face into the cool, rainy air, closing his eyes. “I’m over it.”

“Oh, sick, that’s fixing the fog,” Evan says. He rolls his window down too. “Look, you’re gonna be fine. You’re just stressing about this ‘cos it’s new. Once you get through your first day, you won’t be as anxious about it.”

“You don’t know what it feels like to have people treat you like they do when you’re crazy or an addict, or both,” Amir says bitterly. “The way nobody trusts you about literally anything… you'd panic too, you’d want to run from it too.”

“Babe, I know that. I know I would. But I also don’t know what it’s like to be crazy talented like you are, and live in everybody’s head rent-free, and have everyone want to fuck me or know me, okay? You’re special, and that’s not always a fun ride, but it’s what everyone wants to be.” Evan’s quiet for a moment. “My whole life I’ve been, y’know, not quite enough for anybody. You might feel like you’re too much, but trust me, people like me wish we were like you.”

“You’re _not_ ‘not enough’,” Amir murmurs. “You’re one of the coolest people I know, and brave, and strong. You’re way braver than me.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You are. Take the compliment.”

Evan shrugs. Amir reaches over to him and lays his hand on Evan’s thigh; Evan takes it in his.

“Thanks for escorting me,” Amir says.

“You’re welcome, princess.”

Amir uses his free hand to flick Evan in the knuckles. Evan laughs.

*

Eli meets them in the parking lot, striding over to them with a massive black umbrella that he puts over their heads, even though it’s barely misting at this point.

“Umbrellas help with crowd control,” he explains, in response to Amir’s curious expression. “Gives you a physical barrier.”

The swarming paps have taken over the sidewalk, and started yelling as soon as they drove up, but it isn’t until they get closer that Amir can understand anything they’re saying. They avoid the sidewalk entirely, crossing through the grass as they head for the front door of the rehab center. Flash bulbs pop off, over and over, and Evan tightens his arm around Amir’s shoulders.

“Amir, Amir, why were you in a psychiatric hospital last year?”

“Amir, is it true you’re bipolar? Was that why you were in the psych ward? Did you have postpartum depression?”

“Are you ever going to release your debut album?”

“Amir, Amir, look over here, look up.”

“Amir, how’s your daughter?”

“Evan, what do you have to say about the abuse allegations against your brother Henry?”

“Amir, is it true you left Jya’s tour because of your substance abuse?”

“Evan, are you standing by Amir? Are you two staying together?”

“Amir, TMZ talked to your saxophonist Frankie Thompson, and he called you a spoiled coke whore, what do you have to say in response?”

“Evan, has your family officially disowned you? Does this relationship have anything to do with that?”

They ignore all of it. Amir keeps his eyes on his feet as he walks across the grass, nuzzling his head against Evan’s shoulder. United front.

They reach the front door, with Eli bringing up the rear. The door shuts behind them, and Eli closes the umbrella, shaking it out.

“Hi!” the lady at the front desk chirps. “You made it!”

Amir, who had started shaking without realizing it, tries to relax. The rehab center seems designed to facilitate this: there’s soft, tinkling piano music playing, and a bunch of those little electric water features running, as well as an overpowering scent of lavender. Even the lighting is low and warm, instead of harsh fluorescents.

“I made it,” he says, giving her a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. The words _spoiled coke whore_ won’t stop ringing in his head.

“Alright,” Evan says to Amir, tipping his chin up with a finger and kissing him. “I gotta go to work. Have a good day.”

“Okay,” Amir says miserably.

“You’re gonna be fine.”

“I know.”

Evan kisses him on the forehead.

“I’ll be here all day,” Eli tells Amir. “I’ll just be sitting in the parking lot, and I’ll come get you when you’re ready to leave, just text me.”

“Thanks, Eli.”

“No need to thank me. It’s what your dad’s paying me to do.”

Amir’s smart enough to realize what else this means: Eli is also here to tail him if he tries to run away from rehab. Louis doesn’t trust him not to bolt.

To Evan, Eli says: “Ready?”

“Yup,” Evan says. He squeezes Amir’s arm, then departs with Eli as they head back out into the misty morning. Flash bulbs start going off again, reflecting off the wet surface of the black umbrella.

Amir turns to the front desk lady, who gives him a cheery smile. “What do I do first?”

“First we check you in,” she chirps. “So you’ll give us a urine sample while supervised, and then we’ll give you a questionnaire about your substance use habits and your mental health history. That will all take about two hours.”

“Great.”

She seems to miss the sarcasm. “Yeah!”

*

It’s all humiliating, but this is clearly routine for the rehab staff. It does remind Amir a _lot_ of being in the psych ward. Mostly it’s the lack of privacy: having to stand in the middle of a sterile room and piss in a cup while a nurse stares at your dick is psych ward type shit. Even before he makes the sample, he has to pull his shirt up and his boxer briefs down to show the guy he isn’t wearing a device.

“Here,” Amir mutters once he’s done, handing the cup to the nurse, who caps it and leaves the room without another word. Amir pulls his jeans up and zips his fly, trying to cling to his sense of dignity.

After that is worse, though, because it’s ninety minutes of invasive discussion of his life. He has to walk a social worker through The Incident, his history of bipolar disorder, all of the drama with his family, his career shit, and his litany of drug abuse, then answer follow-up questions about all of this.

“Have you been in addiction treatment before?” Carey the social worker says at one point, clicking her pen before bringing it back down to her notebook.

Amir, exhausted, closes his eyes. His eyelashes are still wet from the tears he shed while he told her about The Incident — he can’t talk about it without crying, yet. “No, I haven’t needed to before.”

“But you said you’ve been abusing stimulants since college, and you almost overdosed on MDMA in high school, and you have a family history of addiction on both sides. You never felt like you had a problem until now?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Okay.”

“It snuck up on me.”

Carey laughs at this. “Okay. So what we’re going to do now that we have kind of a baseline understanding of your situation, is we’re going to try to get you set up with a therapist for one-on-one sessions, a therapy group, a sobriety coach, and a case manager.”

“What if I don’t want to do group therapy?”

“Well, it is part of our program, but we can talk more about that. Either way, you won’t start your group today. You’ll meet with each member of your team, first.”

Amir looks out the window, which has a sweeping view of the hermetically sealed, perfectly manicured grounds. Carey picks up a tablet and starts using it to scan the pages of notes she was taking the whole time they were talking.

“Do you have a therapist who’s like, a drill sergeant?” he says, turning back to her.

Carey laughs again. “Sorry?”

“My sister says I need a therapist who’s, like, a hardass. She thinks I’m manipulative.”

Carey nods. “Does she feel manipulated by you?”

“I guess.”

“Do _you_ think you’re manipulative?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Amir says. “Aren’t addicts manipulative by default?”

“Well, but do you intentionally try to manipulate the people around you?”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

Carey studies him, then writes this down. “We actually do have a therapist who fits that description,” she says. “If you think a more straightforward approach is what you need and want on your journey to sobriety, we can try to pair you with him. I’m not sure what his caseload is like, right now. I’ll go check on that. Sit tight.”

She takes her notes and tablet, leaving him there in the little room. Amir looks around. Soft corners on all the furniture, nothing on the ceiling to hang yourself from. It reminds him of the psych ward, that way. At least here he gets to keep his shoelaces.

There’s a glass-paned door in the room that leads outside, and the sight of it makes Amir want to smoke, or at least vape. He manages to hold off this urge for all of two minutes before digging his vape out of his pocket and heading outside, taking a deep breath of the cool, fresh air before sucking on his vape like it’s providing him with oxygen.

He gets a text from Liam into the family group chat while he’s out there, saying, _Doctor says Tommo’s doing much better! On track to get cleared to go to England, have a followup in a week and a half_

 _Yaaaay_ , Sunday says back.

Amir gives a love react to Liam’s text, as a general olive branch to Liam. A moment later, the door opens, and Carey pokes her head out.

“Hi,” she says apologetically. “So, good news, Dr. Messina actually can fit you in as a patient. He’s pretty tightly booked, but I told him what you said, and he found it funny, and said he’s up for the challenge.”

Amir slips his vape back into his pocket. “Sick,” he says. “Thanks.”

“Of course. So next thing is we’ll have you meet with your sobriety coach and your case manager, and then after that, Dr. Messina can meet with you for an hour-long consultation, and you can see if that’s going to be a good fit.”

This sounds like an exhausting gauntlet, but Amir nods.

*

Louis has just gotten home and is settling down on the couch with Max and Patrick to watch a movie in celebration of his doctor clearing him to mostly come off bed rest, when his watch rings with a call from Harry.

“Ah, one second,” he says, pausing the opening credits and getting up. “Sorry.”

“Dad,” Patrick complains. Max brings his hoodie’s hood up over his head and pulls the strings taut, then leans his head back against the couch cushion, assuming a napping position.

“I swear it’ll only be one second! It’s only Harry, when do I ever spend ages talking to Harry?”

Max still says nothing, but kicks his feet up onto the ottoman as if settling in for the long haul. Patrick flicks his hand at Louis and starts looking at his own watch.

“Terrible, impatient boys,” Louis says fondly. “Who raised you?” Once he’s out in the hallway, he shakes his wrist at his ear and says, “Hello?”

“Hey,” Harry says. “I just wanted to check in… Zayn said it’s Amir’s first day of rehab.”

“It is, but we haven’t heard anything from him yet, ‘cos he’s still in sessions.”

“Right, I figured. Just wanted to see how you’re doing.”

“I’m doing fine,” Louis says. Goose trots down the hall and walks up to him, wagging his tail. He kneels and starts petting him, rubbing his neck under his collar. “Yourself?”

“Yeah, I’m good. I, erm, I did want to offer — maybe it’s stupid, I dunno, but I wanted to offer to cover the cost of rehab.”

Louis snorts, taken aback. “Really? Is that how you make this up to me, by throwing money at me?”

“No, that isn’t —“

“‘Cos you know I don’t need your money.”

“Please quit being stubborn and defensive for five seconds,” Harry says. “This is all I can think of to do. I’m coming to you, man to man, making this offer. If I tried to do more, you’d say I was overstepping. If I did less, you’d call it pathetic. Just let me do this one thing.”

Louis leans down to kiss Goose on the head, trying to actually listen to what Harry’s saying and think it over, instead of just reacting to it.

“Alright,” he finally relents.

“Yeah?” Harry says, sounding surprised.

“You’re right that I’d give you a hard time no matter what, and I appreciate the gesture. So aye, go ahead.”

“Oh, well, good. Alright. How much is it costing you?”

“Twenty grand.”

“Alright. I’ll have that to you by tomorrow morning.”

“Thanks. And look, uh…” Louis pauses, and Goose takes this opportunity to lick his face. “I’m sorry if I’ve been riding you a bit hard about all of this.” He stops and winces at his own choice of words. “I mean, if I’ve been a bit of a dick to you.”

“It’s alright.”

“It’s not. It’s just, y’know...”

Harry’s quiet for a long moment. “It’s very complicated,” he says.

“It always is, bro.”

“Tends to be,” Harry agrees.

Louis keeps stroking Goose, who’s settled down by his feet and rolls onto his back for belly rubs. “Amir’s planning to leave Jeff, just so you know.”

“Right, I figured. Seems like that’s best for both of them.”

“He said he wants me to manage him, actually.”

“Oh,” Harry says, sounding surprised. “You gonna do it?”

“Maybe. Maybe. I’m really just focused on his recovery, right now. I don’t want him thinking about his music career for a while.”

“That’s probably best.”

“Yeah.”

“Alright, well, I just wanted to ask you that, and say hello. Is your pneumonia better?”

“It actually is. Loads better.”

“Good, good. Well, have a good one.”

“You too, mate,” Louis says.

They ring off with each other. Louis picks Goose up and carries him into the den, dumping him onto the couch between Patrick and Max. Max picks him up and lays him on his chest, and Goose snuggles into his shoulder before falling asleep.

“What was that about?” Patrick says to Louis.

“Harry wanted to give me money ‘cos he feels guilty,” Louis says, turning the movie back on.

“Ayy,” Max cheers. “What are we spending Harry’s guilt money on?”

“It’s earmarked for your brother's rehab, so don’t get too excited. But maybe I’ll take the money I’m saving not paying for it, and buy the rest of you gifts to celebrate us making it halfway through this shit year.”

“I’d like a car,” Patrick says.

“You have a car.”

“I’d like a better, faster car.”

Louis laughs. “Nice try, but I was thinking more summat like I’d buy you your first Rolex.”

Patrick appears to consider this. “I wouldn’t say no to a Rolex. Can I also get a subscription to Bon Appetit?”

“Sure, love. Are you gonna cook for you and Max?”

“I’m gonna try,” Patrick says. “‘Cos there’s no way I’m eating dining hall food for four years.”

“Can I have money to buy Caroline some jewelry?” Max says to Louis. “Also, can you help me pick out the jewelry? I dunno what girls like.”

“Of course, Fox. Anytime.” Louis sits down beside Max and leans into his shoulder, playing with Goose’s ear. “So when you boys are at uni, you’ll come back and visit loads, right?”

“All the time,” Max promises.

“When we can,” Patrick amends.

“Nah, all the time,” Max says.

Louis smiles at Max and reaches up to tousle his hair.

*

Dr. Messina doesn’t look like a drill sergeant; he looks more like a mob boss. He’s a tall, heavyset guy with a thick head of graying hair, and hairy arms. His assistant sent Amir into his office to wait for him while he finished up with a group therapy session down the hall, and when Messina finally arrives, he’s brusquely apologetic.

“I’m Dr. Joe Messina, you can call me Joe,” he says, reaching out for Amir’s hand and shaking it. His meaty, hairy arm pumps Amir’s so violently that Amir becomes briefly aware of his own shoulder socket. And he has a wedding band on. Perfect.

“Hi,” Amir says. “Amir.”

“How are you today, Amir?”

“Not great,” Amir says honestly.

Joe sits down in the armchair across from the couch he’s perched on, chuckling. “Well, rehab isn’t supposed to be fun, exactly. How did your meetings with your coach and your case manager go?”

“Great. They reminded me it’s bad to do drugs, so that was very informative.”

Joe chuckles some more. “Can I get you anything? Water, coffee, tea?”

“I’m good, but do you mind if I hit my vape while we talk?”

“Nah, go ahead,” Joe says, glancing down at his watch and hitting a few buttons on it. A moment later, both of the windows of his office slide open, letting fresh air in.

Amir takes his vape from his pocket and takes a deep drag off it, then breathes out a cloud of vapor.

“Alright,” Joe says, looking down at a tablet. “I’m just looking over the notes that you gave Carey permission to share with me… so sorry if I seem a little distracted, I don’t read all that fast. I’d prefer to talk to you myself, anyway, if you don’t mind repeating some of what you told her.”

“Okay,” Amir sighs.

“So can you give me an abridged version of what brought you here today?”

Amir does, choking up again when he talks about The Incident. Joe doesn’t hand him tissues the way Carey did, but he points to a box of them on the end table beside Amir. He only asks a few questions, mostly nodding and letting Amir fumble his way through the story he’s telling.

“Alright,” he says, when Amir has worn himself out and trailed off. “I think that’s a good place to start from.”

Amir nods. He’s absolutely exhausted, and he feels raw all over, with the growing flush of humiliation at having exposed himself to a stranger yet again.

“You okay?” Joe says. “You look upset.”

He shrugs. “Wouldn’t you be upset?”

“What’s got you upset, specifically?”

“I don’t want to be here.”

“No? Then why are you here?”

“I have to be,” Amir says, shrugging.

“Why do you have to be?”

“‘Cos this is where addicts go, and I’m an addict.”

“So you see this as a punishment, or a duty? Mandated in some way?”

“Punishment,” Amir answers immediately. “Definitely. My whole life is punishment, right now, like purgatory. I’m paying for my sins, giving everyone their pound of flesh.”

“Interesting.” Joe writes something down. “Well, I know you requested me because you wanted a hardass who you’d have a hard time manipulating, and I’m curious about that. Do you see yourself as in _need_ of punishment?”

“My sister was the one who said that,” Amir says drily. “She thinks I’m flirtatious, and I win people over and get them to cut me slack when I don’t deserve it.”

“But you must agree with her on some level, if you passed that assessment of yourself onto us verbatim.”

Joe is a lot smarter than he looks.

“I guess I kind of do,” Amir says. “It’s always been pretty easy for me to manipulate certain people.”

“And in your head, this is linked to sex?”

“I mean, I usually manipulate them by virtue of them being attracted to me, so yeah.”

Joe writes more. “I also found it interesting that you specifically asked for a male therapist who isn’t attracted to men, but who would be firm with you,” he says. “Not a firm woman who isn’t attracted to men?”

“Women feel sorry for me more than other men do,” Amir says.

“Hmm. You wouldn’t say this has anything to do with the fact that you don’t have a mom?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean it’s pretty common for people who have parental issues to seek out a parental figure in a therapist,” Joe says. “And you told me about how your maternal figure, your dad who was pregnant with you, is generally pretty lenient with you, which is a dynamic that you seem to want to avoid replicating. Your other father, who’s more of a distant hardass, and who you crave the affection and attention of, is who you want mirrored for you in a therapeutic setting.”

“Is this some Oedipal shit?”

Joe laughs. “It’s not Oedipal. Our parents are the blueprint for how we interact with the world. We’re constantly acting out our childhoods without realizing it, especially when our inner child is damaged.”

“Is my inner child ‘damaged’?” Amir retorts.

“I think he’s sad, and lonely, and confused, and I think maybe you spurn him. I think he wants to be comforted, and that makes you angry, because your vulnerability and sensitivity is something you never learned to cope with.”

Amir hugs his arms to himself, ducking eye contact with Joe.

“I think you use drugs to try to shut him up and numb him,” Joe says kindly. “I think he’s who you want to punish. You hate him for making you feel weak.”

“No,” Amir mutters, tears gathering in his eyes. He blinks them back.

“It’s okay to cry. Don’t try to stop yourself from crying.”

“Literally all I do is fucking cry,” he snaps, rocking back and forth. “You have no idea.”

“That’s okay! Go ahead.”

“I don’t want to!”

“Why not?” Joe says.

“I’m tired of it!”

“Are you tired of crying, or are you tired of wanting to cry?”

“Both!” Amir dissolves into sobs, then, the furious kind that make your lungs hurt. He grabs a handful of tissues and uses them to mop his face, then crumples them in his fist. “This is why I didn’t want to come here. I’m so tired of this shit. You think you know me? Congratulations, so does everyone else on earth.”

“I think you want to _actually_ be known, though, Amir,” Joe says. “Being known isn’t the problem, it’s people’s superficial engagement with you. You keep seeking out that superficial engagement because it feels safe, then rejecting it because it hurts your inner child. Your inner child wants stability and comfort, and you punish him for this, because you think stability and comfort aren’t actually possible.”

Amir bends over his lap again like he had that morning in the car, hugging himself, weeping and wanting to smack Joe in the face for his impertinence. “Wouldn’t you?” he demands. “If you had gone crazy and tried to kill yourself and your kid, wouldn’t you feel like that confirmed that you aren’t allowed to be safe and happy?”

“None of us are safe forever,” Joe says. “Terrible things happen in life. But you’re safe right now. You’re in a safe place, and you’re where you need to be. If you get sober, you can more than likely live a long and happy life.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Of course I don’t. Every day is a gift. Nothing is promised. But if you’re killing yourself with drugs just to prove that you’re doomed, that’s kind of a self-fulfilling prophecy.”

Amir is quiet, still hugging himself.

“The great thing is, it’s never too late to start reparenting yourself and making your inner child feel secure,” Joe says. “Even after you become a parent. In fact, sometimes that makes it easier.”

Amir drags in a shuddering breath. Sometimes he completely forgets he is a parent; he still feels so young, most days.

“Amir,” Joe says. “Hey.”

Amir looks up at him.

“It’s okay,” Joe says. “Like I said, this is a safe place. Not only are you physically safe, but I’m not judging you, I’m not gonna use anything you told me against you. I’m not gonna try to take your daughter away, or take what you tell me to the tabloids, or throw it back in your face, okay? I don’t even have to be your therapist if you don’t want me to. You’re in control, in here. This is your show. We’re here to help you get sober and stay sober, and that’s it.”

“Okay,” Amir says numbly.

“Now, we’re out of time, today. If you’d like to see me again, let my assistant know on your way out. If not, no hard feelings. You want to take some tissues with you?”

Amir stares at him in sulky silence, but he yanks a few tissues out of the box before heading out.

“Nice to meet you,” Joe calls after him.

“Yeah, you too,” Amir mutters.

He does stop and ask Joe’s assistant to schedule them for a Wednesday appointment, though. He already poured his heart out to this guy, so he might as well hear some more about this inner child thing.

*

Mia took it upon herself to babysit April while Amir was at rehab, so she could spend the day with her before she leaves for the airport. The two of them are sitting on the pool deck with Louis, playing with oobleck, when Amir gets home and storms out to them.

He’s obviously been crying, and looks exhausted. Without saying anything, he goes over to April and snatches her up in his arms, then sits down on a pool chair, cuddling her.

“Daddy!” April chirps.

Amir buries his face in her hair, squeezing her and giving her a kiss on the head.

“So how was the first day?” Louis says.

Amir shakes his head, wrapping his arms around April and swinging her side to side in a rocking motion, making her cling to him like a koala and squeal with delight.

“That good, huh?” Mia says.

Amir lets out a breathy exhale. “It was fine. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay,” Louis says. “You wanna play with oobleck?”

Amir peeks over April’s shoulder at the clear tub of white goo sitting on the pool deck. “Sure,” he murmurs. He lowers himself down to the deck, settling April on his lap, and Louis hands him a hunk of oobleck.

Amir takes it in his hands and starts playing with it, squeezing it to make it firm and then releasing it and letting it become liquid. April stares at his palm in fascination, reaching out with her little hand to mimic him, and Amir patiently holds his hand steady for her, despite the tremors that Mia can see radiating from his wrist.

“This is a Newtonian fluid,” Amir explains to April, who seems to actually be listening to him. “It’s not a solid _or_ a liquid, ‘cos it has viscosity that changes according to its stress state. The viscosity of liquids decides their resistance to flow, so if you put stress on a Newtonian fluid, the viscosity goes from low to high.” He squeezes the oobleck in his fingers. “But if you relieve the stress…” He releases his grip and lets it run back down into his palm. “It goes back to low.”

Louis stares at him in amazement.

“I’m gonna miss you guys,” Mia says, feeling maudlin.

“Well, come home and visit,” Louis says, sounding unconvincingly cheerful, like he doesn’t want to think about her leaving. “And we’ll see you in England soon.”

Mia flicks her gaze to Amir, who’s smiling at April, looking disconnected from the world around him. April’s almost completely healed from her misadventure in the woods, now; her little arms are dotted with tiny scabs, but that’s the only lingering reminder.

“You coming to England, Meer?” she says.

Amir glances up. “Uh… yeah, if I’m wanted.”

“Of course you’re wanted,” Louis says, sounding exasperated.

“Okay. Then yeah.”

“Alright,” Mia says. “Good.”

Louis watches Amir for a moment in silence. “Harry offered to pay for your rehab,” he says, sort of out of nowhere.

Amir looks up from April, who’s in the process of covering him and herself in oobleck. “Seriously? Why?”

“He just wanted to, as a gesture.”

Amir makes a face. “Okay, I guess.”

“He has the money,” Mia says, shrugging. A breeze shakes the trees around the pool, making a soft sound, and causing ripples in the sun-dappled water.

“I think he feels like it’s sort of his fault you, er, are where you are,” Louis says.

Amir snorts. “It’s not his fault I’m in rehab,” he says. “He shouldn’t give himself that much credit.”

“I know, love, but he feels guilty. I did warn him about letting Jeff get to you, and all that.”

“I know you did, I was there.” Amir looks back down at April, smiling at her. In a baby voice, he sings, “And Dad was right, ‘cos he’s always right about everything bad, and the rest of us are naive idiots.”

“Yeah,” April cheerfully agrees.

“Amir,” Louis chides him.

“I’m just saying.” Amir shrugs, looking for all he’s worth like a sullen teenager. “You were right. I’m too fragile, I couldn’t handle it.”

“I never said you were fragile.”

“However you phrased it.”

“You’re twisting what I said,” Louis says, looking helpless.

“Dad,” Mia interrupts, “he knows what you mean, okay? He’s just being a baby.”

“I am just being a baby,” Amir admits.

Louis exhales. “Don’t be so hard on your old dad,” he tells him.

“Okay,” Amir murmurs. “Sorry.”

*

Mia goes upstairs to pack around five, and Amir comes with her, leaving April with Louis and Liam while the latter makes paella.

Amir lies on her bed while she goes into her closet and pulls out her suitcase, starting to toss in jackets and crewnecks, since Aya warned her it can get chilly in Berlin.

“Can you smoke weed?” Mia calls to Amir. “Like how Baba’s sober, but he’s still allowed to smoke weed?”

“Uh,” Amir says. “I guess so. They said nic is fine, and I feel like weed is just a step up from nic...”

“Alright, grab that joint off my dresser and get it started for me, we can split it.”

“Word,” Amir says. As Mia is pushing hangers aside, looking for her coziest UCLA sweatshirt, she hears the flick of a lighter and the crackle of a joint sparking up.

Mia finds the sweatshirt and tosses it into her suitcase, then wheels it back into her bedroom and starts rummaging through the box of stuff that she’d packed to take with her from her and Katarina’s apartment. The rest of her stuff is still there; movers are going to box it up and put it in storage tomorrow, courtesy of Louis.

Amir blows out a plume of smoke and offers the joint to Mia, who takes it and flops down on the bed next to him, inhaling.

“What am I gonna do without you?” he says.

Mia hits him in the arm. “Same thing you did without me for the last six months, idiot.”

“That doesn’t count, I was high as balls and barely alive. I mean how am I gonna handle being here in this house, trying to get sober, taking care of this kid and like, trying to fix shit with Evan, without you around to smoke weed with?”

“You’ll figure it out.”

“You’re leaving me alone with the twins and Liam,” Amir moans. “They’re gonna make me drink Michelob Ultra with protein powder in it.”

Mia laughs, hitting the joint again. “You know, you and Evan could always move back out.”

“Please, like Dad or Evan’s gonna let me take April out of this house ‘til I’m at least, like, four months sober. They barely trust me to tie my shoes without supervision.” Amir accepts the joint from Mia and takes a drag. “I don’t trust myself either, that’s the really shitty part.”

“It’ll get better. Give it time.”

“I know.” He blows out smoke. “Time, time time. It’s always time.”

“It _is_ always time.”

“How long you gonna be in Germany?”

“We’ll see,” Mia says. “I got a one-way ticket, just ‘cos I wasn’t sure. I dunno. I might hate it, and not be able to make it work with her, and come back in, like, three weeks.”

“Nah,” Amir says, passing the joint back to her. “You’re butt-ass in love with her, you’ll make it work.”

“Well, if I do, she only has to finish out the year in Germany, and then she says she could choose where to go next. And she did come out to L.A. to do some work at the consulate there.”

“So you guys could maybe go to L.A.?”

“Maybe,” Mia muses, hitting the joint. “It might be nice to be closer to Pops... and the girls. I feel like I’m not close enough with them.”

“Yeah, they’re afraid of you,” Amir says. “Well, not Toni. Toni thinks you’re cool. Marlena thinks you’re scary.”

“I think Marlena’s scary!”

Amir cracks up and takes the joint back. “Aw, this is dead,” he says, taking a drag off the roach and then setting it on her bedside table. “I guess through the end of the year isn’t that long. Six months… so you’re just paying me back in full for the time I was gone, huh?”

“Shockingly, this decision had everything to do with my needs, and nothing to do with you.”

Amir rolls onto his side and looks at her. “Aya was always nice to you, right?” he says. “There’s nothing you’re not telling me about that relationship?”

Mia sighs through her nostrils and meets his gaze. “Aya’s always been nice to me,” she says. “The only shitty thing she ever did to me was dump me, and she obviously regrets that, so I’m willing to give her another shot.”

“Okay,” Amir murmurs. “‘Cos what Sunday said about Katarina really freaked me out.”

“Yeah, it freaks me out that I let someone hit me, too.”

“I feel like that wouldn’t have happened if I were here,” Amir mutters.

Mia reaches up for his hand and squeezes it. “It wasn’t your fault,” she says, her voice stern. “I’ve been in a slump and acting out for a long time, and it had nothing to do with you. You being gone just exacerbated what was already there. Newsflash, you’re not the only depressed, anxious fuck-up in this family.”

Amir laughs. “True.”

“I am gonna miss you.” She reaches out and twists his nipple, making him howl in pain. “I’ve missed you all year, you fucking brat.”

Amir hits her in the arm in retaliation. “Look, I had to leave to be able to come back, okay?” he says. “I’m not saying it was right, or perfect, or the smartest way to go about things, but…”

“No, I do get it. I still hated it, though.”

“I hated it too,” Amir admits.

“Did you?”

“Not all of it. There were a lot of cool moments— just from, like, the music part. But I was so fucked up the whole time, I couldn’t really appreciate them.” Amir’s quiet. “I feel like I blew my chance to really do it, like, do it right.”

“You didn’t,” Mia says. “There’s always more chances.”

“I know. Right now I just want to be with April. I’ll suffer through whatever I have to do if I can have that.”

“I think that’s a good way to look at it,” Mia says.

She finishes packing with Amir’s input (he always gives good advice about how to put together outfits, and what skincare and haircare products are necessities) before heading downstairs. The twins are watching TV with Liam and Louis in the den; April is dozing on Max’s chest.

“Are you leaving?” Patrick says, looking up at her.

Mia nods at him. He bolts to his feet, and Max follows suit, handing April off to Amir like she’s a football. The twins tackle Mia onto the floor, knocking the wind out of her.

“Please,” Mia wheezes, lying there, staring up at the ceiling in a daze. “You guys have to stop doing that, you’re way too big now.”

Patrick pretends he’s about to drop an elbow on her, WWE-style, then wraps his arms around her and squeezes her. “Bye,” he says, sounding sad. “Have a good flight. Don’t stay in Germany too long.”

“I won’t, I promise.”

Max wraps his arms around both of them, and Mia reaches up to tousle his hair. Max somehow always smells like earth and grass, even when he hasn’t been outside all day.

“Have a good time,” Max says, sounding mournful. “Go to Oktoberfest for us… try not to forget what we look like.”

“Please,” Mia says, cracking up. “I’m literally going to see you guys in a month!”

“A likely story,” Patrick says. “This is how it goes, people run away to Germany and then you never see them again.”

“That literally never happens, Paddy.”

They release her and pull her to her feet, dusting her off. Mia goes over to Liam first, and gives him a quick but tight hug; he kisses her on the head and says, “Have a safe flight, Mims.”

Mia turns to Louis, and they pull faces at each other.

“Don’t say anything or I’ll start crying,” Louis says, pulling her into a hug. “Have a safe flight, ring us when you land, I’ll see you soon.”

“Okay. See you soon.”

Louis kisses her on the head, too, and squeezes her shirt hard in his hand before letting her go.

“I’ll walk you out,” Amir says, shifting April on his hip.

They head into the foyer together, with the sound of Mia’s suitcase wheels on the marble filling the silence. The sun is going down, flooding the house with brilliant oranges and pinks.

“Don’t walk me all the way down,” Mia tells him. “It’s fine.”

“Yeah, no way in fuck was I carrying April all that way anyway,” Amir says, flashing her a smile.

She laughs and wraps him up in a hug, careful not to squish April, who reaches a little hand up to grab onto her hair.

“Bye, Meer,” Mia murmurs. “See you soon.”

“See you soon.” He squeezes a fistful of her shirt the same exact way that Louis had. “FaceTime me sometime this week.”

“I will.”

Mia lets go of him and cups April’s sweet little face in her hands, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Mwa. Bye, April.”

“Bye-bye,” April says, clumsily signing it. “Bye Mia.”

“Yes!” Mia says, excited. “You said Mia, not Bia!”

“Mia,” April repeats, and Amir smiles.

“Bye, Bart,” he says.

Mia laughs. “Bye, Lise.”

She pulls a baseball cap over her hair and heads out into the sun-drenched dusk, starting down the long hill toward the road. A few hundred feet in, she feels a pair of eyes on her; she turns and sees Amir still standing in the doorway with April.

He lifts his hand in a wave, and she waves back, tears pricking at her eyes and nose.

*

Around 8:30, Amir’s watch alerts him that Evan is at the front door, but then he doesn’t come in. So Amir dumps April on Louis and goes out to meet him.

He finds Evan on the porch, banging dried mud out of his boots on the front steps. He looks exhausted, with his cheeks sunburned and his face and clothes soot-stained.

“Hi,” Amir says.

“Hey,” Evan says, sounding exhausted.

“You look like shit.”

“I know. I had to help put out a fire.”

“Seriously? You do stuff like that?”

Evan stops banging out his shoe and starts laughing. “Dude, you have no idea what park rangers do, do you?”

“Not a clue. You wanna hear about rehab?”

“Yeah, I wanna hear about rehab…” Evan straightens up and comes over to him, grabbing him around the waist and pressing a hand to his lower back, kissing him.

Amir laughs in surprise and grabs him back, cupping his sooty face in his hands. “Hi,” he says.

“Hi,” Evan murmurs to him.

“Leave your boots on the porch, come have dinner.”

“Is there any dinner left?”

“Yeah, idiot, we saved a plate for you and everything.”

Evan snakes his arms tighter around Amir, cradling him close. Amir tucks his face into Evan’s neck. Evan is 5’11, the perfect height for him — though Amir often bullies him into claiming he’s at least 6 feet, because it makes him look taller by comparison.

“My inner child is damaged,” Amir mumbles into Evan’s neck.

“Who said that?”

“My new therapist. He said my child me is very sad and confused.”

“Well, yeah, I know that. I knew you when you were a kid, remember?”

Amir heaves a sigh. “You smell like smoke.”

“Uh, yeah, it’s from the fire.”

Amir laughs. “Come inside and eat. I have a monster headache, I don’t wanna get to bed too late.”

Evan slings an arm around his shoulders and walks him inside, letting the door fall shut behind them. “Did Mims leave for the airport?”

“Yeah, a couple hours ago.”

“Shit. I’ll text her goodbye, I guess. What’s for dinner?”

“Shrimp salad.”

Evan sucks his teeth. “Double shit.”

“There’s also mashed potatoes,” Amir adds, because he knows Evan doesn’t like shrimp very much.

“Better.”

“I agree. Hey, Evan?”

“Yeah?”

Amir gazes up at him. “I’m sorry I ran away.”

Evan exhales deeply through his nose. “It’s okay,” he mutters.

“No, it’s not.”

“I mean, it’s not, but… we’re working it out.”

“Are we?”

Evan presses a kiss to his head. “Yeah. Look… you want to make it up to me, just keep going to rehab.”

“My case manager says you’ll probably have to come in for some family therapy sessions,” Amir says.

“That’s fine with me. We definitely need therapy.”

Amir laughs.

“I’m proud of you for going,” Evan says, kissing him on the head again.

“Are you actually? You’re not ashamed I have to go to rehab, and everyone knows I’m going to rehab, and everyone thinks you’re a simp who lets me treat him like shit?”

“Well, when you put it like that,” Evan says, and Amir laughs and reaches up to twist his nipple. “Nah, no. Still not ashamed of you. I don’t really care anymore what other people think.”

“But what do _you_ think?”

“I think you’re trying your best, after giving up on life for a long time,” Evan says simply. “And I’m proud of you for that.”

“Thanks,” Amir murmurs.

“You’re welcome.” Evan starts guiding him into the kitchen. “Now it’s time for me to get some of these potatoes.”

*

After they put their daughter to bed, Evan showers fast, and then Amir rides him so violently that he’s knocked out in a deep sleep about three minutes after he comes. Amir slips out of bed and creeps away, going into the bathroom so he can talk in private.

He stares at the sink while the phone rings, looking at what Evan has laid out. Toothpaste, toothbrush, face wash, a razor, a comb, deodorant, tweezers, and... that’s it. No moisturizer, no hair products. No cologne. What’s wrong with this guy?

Finally, Jeff picks up, sounding sleepy. “Hello?”

“Hey,” Amir says.

Jeff is quiet for a moment. “Why are you calling me at eleven o’ clock at night?”

“I want to talk to you.”

“Okay? Go ahead.”

Amir stares at himself in the mirror, suddenly anxious. He turns from side to side, examining his shirtless figure; he’s put a few pounds back on, and he looks better. Less scrawny, not as close to death. “I think this relationship is over,” he says. “I don’t want to be managed by you anymore.”

Jeff lets out a laugh. “I don’t want to manage you anymore, so that works out great,” he says.

“Alright, fine. Bye.”

“No, Amir, hang on. Look, you’re a real talent, okay? No one’s disputing that. But you haven’t earned the right to be this difficult.”

“That’s why I came home,” Amir says, his voice icy. “And it wasn’t me being difficult, it was me going through some really serious shit that wasn’t gonna be helped by me going on tour.”

“And, what, that was my fault?”

“I didn’t say it was, but you were fine with me being fucked up and miserable and on drugs as long as I could still perform and it wasn’t cutting into your bottom line.”

“Amir, you’re really overestimating how much attention I was paying to you before you started flaming out. You were one artist on my roster, and one who was just starting out, opening a tour with no album out.”

“I told you I wasn’t okay,” Amir says, his face getting hot. “I get it, you’re Mr. Big Dick, but I warned you I wasn’t okay.”

“Well, that’s my bad. I didn’t know how not-okay you were. All Harry told me was that you’d been in the mental hospital for some postpartum stuff, and you were doing better, and working on music. I’m not the type of person to assume that just ‘cos someone’s had some personal struggles, that means they’re fucked forever and can never work again. And it wasn’t like I put a gun to your head,” Jeff says hotly. “I just made you an offer, you could have turned me down.”

“I know.”

“I knew you were difficult from the moment I met you backstage at the Troubadour. You were clearly high, you had a shit attitude, you didn’t have the appropriate respect for me. But I was fine with that, because I can handle difficult. I could handle Amir _qua_ Amir.” (Amir appreciates his use of qua.) “I couldn’t handle the Amir who wanted to die and take the entire world out with him.”

“I get that.”

“Look, I’m probably not what you need,” Jeff says. “It’s unfortunate, ‘cos as I said, I think you’re a real talent, and I also like you as a person, when you’re not on drugs. I think you’re funny, and you’re smart about music — smart in general. But I manage forty artists, Amir, including a few of the biggest stars in the world. You were just one rookie I scouted for the majors, and it didn’t work out.”

Amir is quiet, staring down at the marble sink. His headache is getting worse, making his temples throb and his vision swim.

“It’s a huge sacrifice to become the kind of star I thought I could make you,” Jeff says. “It takes everything from you — all your time, all your patience, all your sanity, all your focus. You have to be so hungry to want it. I thought I saw that hunger in your eyes, but I guess I was wrong. You’re pulled in two different directions, and you aren’t willing to do what it takes.”

“I’m not,” Amir admits.

“Listen, you should ask Harry sometime, what he had to give up to become who he became. Like, ask him to be very straight-up with you — a big ask, I know,” Jeff says, and they both laugh. “I think you’d be surprised to hear how much he actually sacrificed.”

(Amir thinks of what Harry said to him when he held April for the first time. He studied her for a long time, then said, “You know, I always wish I’d started earlier, having kids... I wanted several.”

“Why didn’t you?” Amir said.

Harry just shrugged. “It wasn’t in the cards for me.”)

“You might just not want that life, and that’s fine,” Jeff says. “It’s not for everyone. But I don’t half-ass anything, and if you want a different career, you need a different manager.”

“I get that,” Amir says. “I really do. And, uh, I’m sorry about all the shit that went down on tour.”

“I am too, man. I fucked up, I admit it, I’m not blameless here. I took you out for a joyride, and I drove you into a pool. None of the damage is permanent, I don’t think, but, y’know. Well, you live and you learn. I wish you the best, Amir, I really do.”

“Thanks, I guess,” Amir says.

“Are you doing better? Harry mentioned you’re in rehab.”

“Yep, started today.”

“Good, I guess something I said stuck.”

“It had nothing to do with you,” Amir says coolly.

Jeff laughs. “Alright, well, let me go, I gotta get to sleep, I have meetings tomorrow. Take care, and good luck with getting sober.”

“Will do, and thanks.”

Jeff hangs up on him, and Amir leans his elbows on the sink basin, staring into space and thinking for a while. When he’s had enough of that, he goes back into Evan’s room and crawls into bed next to him, spooning him.

Evan groans in his sleep.

“I fired Jeff,” Amir murmurs in his ear.

“Ssssssnnf,” Evan says.

Amir kisses him on the cheek.

SACRAMENTO, AUGUST 11, 2042

Amir and Evan have been helping Liam, Max and Patrick unload boxes into Max and Patrick’s row house for at least an hour before Louis, who’s hanging out on the front porch with April, says, “Boys, isn’t it your third wedding anniversary today?”

Amir and Evan, who are carrying either end of a coffee table, look up at each other.

“Oh, fuck,” Evan says, looking mortified.

“It’s okay,” Amir says, laughing. “I forgot too, I’ve been so distracted.”

“Shit! Ah, man.”

“It’s literally fine, I don’t care.”

“Our marriage counselor is gonna be so mad at us,” Evan says, and Amir laughs harder.

They resume bringing in the coffee table, carrying it carefully up the stairs and into the house, where they park it in front of the leather sectional that the movers had brought in earlier.

“Is that it for the living room?” Evan says, looking around. The walls are still bare, but everything else is in place — the massive TV from Max’s room, multiple video game consoles, a coffee table made out of a recycled Guinness barrel that Niall had sent them for a housewarming gift.

“I think so,” Amir says. “I’m done, I’m tired. They can bring the rest of their shit in themselves.”

“Yeah, I think it’s just like, two boxes, the movers got everything else.”

They head back outside, and Amir scoops April out of Louis’ arms, settling her on his hip. He points past the front gate to Liam’s F-450 where it’s street-parked and tells her, “Truck,” while signing _truck_ with his free hand.

“Truck,” she says, in her cute little baby voice.

“Good girl. Truck. Can you sign it?”

“Truck,” she repeats.

“Sign,” Amir says, signing again. She imitates him — not perfectly, but well enough. He’s very stubborn about making sure she learns how to sign as well as she can talk.

Max and Liam go by them, carrying each end of the heavier box, and Patrick brings up the rear, effortlessly carrying a much lighter box.

“Third anniversary is leather,” Liam says over his shoulder as he disappears inside the house, breathing heavily from his trip up the stairs.

“I’ll buy you some assless chaps,” Amir says to Evan, who snorts.

Down the front walk and past the iron wrought gate, Eli is pacing up and down the sidewalk, scanning for paparazzi, though the only people around are other college kids moving in and young couples out with their babies and dogs. He’s trying to look inconspicuous, but the sunglasses, the radio clipped to his belt, and the fact that he’s 6’7 and as wide as an outhouse are all giving him away.

“Yo!” Max yells from inside the house. “Guys, that was it, we’re all done. Come in.”

They all head in the house. Patrick is already sitting on the couch with his feet propped up on the coffee table, scrolling through the sports channels on the TV. Max is squatting next to a box of wall stuff, pawing through it like he’s looking for something specific. Liam is opening up a cooler full of beers.

“Here,” he says, tossing one to Louis, then to Evan. “Amir?”

“Uh, I’m good,” Amir says. “Trying to avoid addictive substances at least ‘til I’m done with rehab.”

“Sorry about that,” Liam says. He tosses a beer to Patrick, who looks surprised, but doesn’t argue.

“Question,” Max says, lifting up a Raiders pennant. “Do we put up the Raiders stuff, even though they’re getting slaughtered in the preseason?”

“Yes,” Liam says, laughing and handing him a beer. “Don’t be a fair-weather fan.”

“I’m not! I’m just wondering if it’s bad luck.”

“Worse luck to not put it up, I think,” Louis says. “You ‘ave to project confidence, or the universe senses it.”

“You are all so fucking weird,” Amir says, sitting down on the couch next to Patrick. April crawls out of his arms and goes over to Patrick, who high-fives her.

“Bring April over whenever,” Patrick says, pulling her onto his lap and letting her play with the remote. “You can just leave her here if you want, even. She was such a big hit with the sorority girls next door.”

“I’m not leaving my baby with you in your mouse-infested frat house, but she can come visit.”

“It’s not a frat house,” Patrick scoffs. “I would never join a frat. I might start my own frat, though.”

Max looks up in alarm. “Uh, don’t,” he says.

“You don’t want to be co-president of a frat with me?” Patrick says. “Max, you’re so boring. You’re like a married old man now.”

“I like being a married old man,” Max says, sounding completely unbothered as he thumbtacks the pennant to the wall. “Okay, there we go. Confidence projected.” He picks up his beer and pops the tab, taking a sip. “Anybody have any college advice?”

Louis and Liam look at each other, exchanging shrugs.

“Sorry, love, but we didn’t go to uni,” Louis says.

“We barely went to secondary,” Liam says, and Louis winces before laughing.

“I didn’t really go, either,” Evan says, taking a seat on a leather ottoman. “I just did an associate’s with an apprenticeship. I never did the like, campus life, other than going to Juilliard parties with Amir.”

“Yeah, what are you talking about?” Amir says to him. “You basically lived at college with me for two years.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t _go_ go _,_ ” Evan says. “I didn’t get the full college experience, is what I’m saying.”

Patrick taps Amir on the arm. “Alright — advice, college boy. Go.”

“Alright, well, one,” Amir says, ticking off on his fingers, “do not start your own frat. Don’t even bother going to frat parties, they suck.”

“They had frats at Juilliard?” Evan says, laughing.

“No, but me, Greg and Jordan used to go to NYU frat parties, and they all sucked.” Amir omits the fact that he fucked at least four NYU frat boys, and they were all rude and bad in bed. “Two, don’t do any eight A.M. classes.”

“We already signed up for our classes,” Patrick says, while entertaining April by pulling goofy faces and making her laugh. “Get good. Next.”

“No eight A.M.s,” Max tells Amir. “But I do have one nine A.M.”

“That’s alright, you’re an early bird,” Louis says.

“I don’t have any classes earlier than noon,” Patrick says. “It owns.”

Amir tips his head back against the couch cushion and tries to think deeply about what he wishes he would have known as a college freshman. “When you have parties, lock your bedrooms and the upstairs bathrooms, and carry the keys on your person,” he says. “Otherwise, people will fool around in your bedrooms, and do coke in your bathrooms.”

“Noted,” Max says, and Patrick nods.

“Carry a fake wallet in case you get mugged, with like, a few expired cards and an expired license. Don’t start taking Adderall, ‘cos taking Adderall in college is how I ended up, y’know.” Amir taps his nose. “If you can’t get the work done without Adderall, you shouldn’t be in the class to begin with.”

“Fair,” Patrick says. “But that means I’m gonna hit you up for help when I have to take business calc.”

“That’s fine, dude, calc is so easy. What else…” Amir squints at the ceiling. “Take some classes online during the summer, so you can take less during the year, and have more time to like, volunteer, or fuck around and party, or hang out with your friends, or do clubs or sports, whatever it is you guys want to make time for. ‘Cos freshman year is just blow-off gen-eds, but you’ll still have some blow-offs every semester up through senior year, and if you can get rid of them during the summer, you won’t have to mess around with them while you’re trying to get shit done for your hard classes.”

Max has taken his phone out and is literally writing all of this down. Patrick is just watching Amir, seemingly mesmerized.

“Do a spring break trip at least once,” Amir says. “Make them pay for it.” He points to Louis and Liam, who laugh. “Take like, five of your boys, maximum, and don’t bring anyone lame. No like, friends of convenience. Go somewhere tropical. Uhh… I dunno. My other advice would be don’t be in a serious relationship, so you can have some fun, but you already blew it on that one, Max.”

Max shrugs. “I’m good. Me and Caroline like all the same TV shows, I’m not throwing that away for sorority girls.”

“Good,” Louis says. “Don’t.”

“Okay, enjoy your train rides to Berkeley, you lunatic,” Patrick says, and Max gives him the finger.

“We were in a serious relationship when you were in college,” Evan points out to Amir.

“Yeah, but not while we were broken up. I sowed all my oats while we were broken up.”

“Sow… oats…” Max mutters, still typing. “I’m just gonna put ‘Patrick’ in parentheses next to that one.”

“Don’t sow your oats too much, Paddy,” Liam says, looking nervous.

“Don’t get anyone pregnant, is what he means,” Louis translates.

“Well, I mean, focus more on your studies, all that.”

“I’ll keep him in check,” Max says.

“Yeah, please let’s try to avoid getting arrested, if we can, Paddy,” Louis says.

“Why is that only directed at me?” Patrick cries.

“You know why. Try to avoid getting any noise complaints, too, ‘cos your landlord seemed to be quite fussed about that. It’s bad enough I had to tell him the paparazzi might pop ‘round.”

“And drink a reasonable amount,” Liam puts in.

“Yeah, only pregame with liquor,” Amir says. “Stick to beer once you’re at the actual party. Don’t drink jungle juice, it’s nasty, they make it so sweet that you’ll wake up dead the next day.”

“No… jungle… juice,” Max mutters, still typing.

“Don’t start smoking cigarettes when you’re drunk,” Amir says. “It’s a really hard habit to break. Keep a vape on you, and if anyone offers you a cigarette, just go, oh, no thanks, I vape.” April starts fussing and reaching out for him, and he takes her back from Patrick, cradling her to his chest. “I really dunno what else. You kind of have to figure it out as you go. Oh, also, don’t be scared to like, put yourself out there to people. It’s harder to make friends in college, but it’s also easier, ‘cos everybody’s lonely and feels weird just like you do. So if you just invite people to hang out, they’ll probably say yes. Especially ‘cos you guys have an off-campus spot. Your freshman friends will wanna come over all the time to smoke weed, ‘cos they can’t do that in the dorms.”

“We’re the kings of the freshmen,” Patrick says to Max.

“I don’t want people in my house smoking weed constantly,” Max replies.

“Alright, Mom. You’ll be at practice all the time, anyway.”

Max laughs. “Practice? All the time? I’m playing club. I’ll practice, like, twice a week.”

“Alright,” Louis says, putting his hand up. “If I can interrupt... I’m getting hungry. Do we want to try to work out where the best pizza around here is?”

“I’m down,” Max says, and everyone else nods.

Evan smiles at April, who waves at him. “I can’t believe we forgot our anniversary,” he says to Amir.

“Is it terrible that I’m not fussed?” Amir says, stroking April’s hair. “It’s just our wedding anniversary, it’s not that big a deal.”

Liam laughs. “What _do_ you consider a big deal, then?”

“November first, the day after Halloween,” Amir says softly. “The day we had our first kiss.”

This makes Evan smile, and both of the twins collapse in paroxysms of fake gagging and sounds of disgust.

GLOUCESTERSHIRE, AUGUST 28, 2042

They spend fifteen minutes standing along the edge of a fence on a windy hilltop in England, watching in silence as Sunday rides her horse around in circles in a sandy ring while her coach yells random words at her, before Mia clears her throat.

“Is this all she’s gonna do?” she says.

Liam hides a yawn behind his hand as he checks his watch. “I think she’s supposed to jump fences in a bit, maybe.”

“Jesus,” Patrick says. “ _Maybe_?”

“Nice flexion,” yells Sunday’s very British coach from the middle of the ring. “Reach down into his mouth, feel his mouth, soft, soft. Good, steady, steady on. Stay soft. Watch that right elbow. Good girl.”

Evan, who’s holding April, shifts her up on his hip and adjusts the little pom-pom hat on her head. “What’s flexion?” he says to Liam.

“Oh, I have no idea,” Liam says. “But they say it all the time, these horse people.”

“I can’t believe you get to the Olympics by riding around in a little circle for hours,” Patrick says.

“Well, let’s be fair,” Louis says. “It’s just like, conditioning. Conditioning looks boring.”

“I feel like it should look more exciting when there’s a horse involved,” Mia says.

“Yeah, you’d be wrong about that.”

“Beautiful, beautiful seat,” her coach shouts. “You have the body of a dancer. Beautiful.”

Amir glances over at Liam, expecting him to react protectively, but he just looks proud. “She gets that from me,” he says.

“And also her mum, who literally danced on Broadway,” Louis puts in.

“Nah, just me,” Liam says, and they all laugh.

“My baseball coach in high school said I have dancing feet,” Max offers.

“See?” Liam says. “There you are.”

April reaches out toward Sunday with her little hand, looking morose. “Horsey,” she says.

“Good girl,” Amir says excitedly, and tries to get her attention so he can sign _horse_. “April. April. Horse. April.”

Patrick, whose face he’s signing in front of, slaps his hands down. “She gets it.”

Amir slaps him back.

“What’s her coach’s name?” Mia says, rubbing a HotHands packet between her palms. The England chill took all of the kids by surprise, though Liam and Louis seem invigorated by it. “I always forget.”

“Joffo, or something,” Amir says. “Something aristocratic. Clive Vicar Timmingsly.”

“Hey,” Louis warns him.

“St. John Hartfordshire,” Mia says, and Amir cracks up.

“I think his name actually _is_ Clive,” Liam says.

“Christ,” says Patrick.

“You have no room to talk, Patrick Routledge,” Amir says.

“Hey, Patrick is a solid working man’s name,” Louis says. “Niall was very pleased by us picking Patrick.”

“Maximilian Fox isn’t so much,” Max says.

“Yes, but we don’t call you Maximilian,” Louis says.

“You could,” Max says. “I wouldn’t mind. Max a million.”

“Maximum Fox,” Amir teases, because he just enjoys saying that. Max jokingly salutes him in response.

“Speaking of Niall, is he coming?” Mia says. “I miss him. I only got to see him for a minute in L.A.”

“Sometime today,” Louis says. “He might just meet up with us for lunch once we get up north. I don’t think he rates comin’ all the way down here on a Saturday to stand by a fence, watching a horse go ‘round in circles.”

“But we do, apparently,” Amir says.

“Yes, we do, ‘cos Sunday is our girl, and we want to support her trying to get to the Olympics.”

“Everyone stare at Sunday and manifest the Olympics at her,” Mia says. “Send her Olympian energy. You too, April.”

“Ba,” April says. “Ba da.”

“Exactly.”

They all turn back to Sunday and stare at her intently. She goes in a circle around Clive a few more times before looking up at them, seeming startled. “What are you guys doing?” she calls to them. Clive turns to them, too, putting a hand up to shield his eyes despite the cloudy conditions.

“Manifesting,” Liam shouts back.

“Oh. Okay?”

Mia starts laughing.

“Is it working?” Max says.

“I guess we’ll find out,” Louis says.


End file.
